


Never Change a Running System

by Lorelei_Lee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Drama, First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, Humor, Kissing, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Male Slash, Masturbation, Public Sex, Rimming, Romance, Sex Toys, Sexual Tension, Slash, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-18
Updated: 2013-06-27
Packaged: 2017-12-05 17:25:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 54,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/725890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorelei_Lee/pseuds/Lorelei_Lee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock discovers his sexuality – with far-reaching consequences for John.</p><p>"John, I would be grateful if you would stop staring at my penis," Sherlock remarked into the gaping silence, without removing his empty gaze from the window.</p><p>The doctor, caught out, couldn't do anything other than swallow, loudly and with difficulty. "Believe me... you couldn't be any more grateful than me."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. barbed wire

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Never change a running System](https://archiveofourown.org/works/414224) by [Lorelei_Lee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorelei_Lee/pseuds/Lorelei_Lee). 



> The totally awesome [SwissMiss ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/pseuds/SwissMiss) is translating the whole story from German to English. I am sooo gratefull for her work. She is doing a fantastic job.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own anything. I don't earn anything from this and am only doing it for fun. Sherlock Holmes belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The BBC series Sherlock belongs to the BBC and Moffatt and Gatiss.
> 
> This story is set sometime after series 1. I also refer to some things from series 2, so it's slightly AU...

**Never Change a Running System**

 

"I would actually be quite interested to know how you managed to get what look like typical injuries from barbed wire on this exact spot," John Watson remarked, not even bothering to try to hide his curiosity.

 

"I know," Sherlock Holmes replied with his usual casual arrogance.

 

John couldn't help but admire his attitude. After all, the only consultive detective in the world was lying flat on his stomach on the couch with his trousers around his knees, while John was attempting to clean all of the tiny wounds.

 

"What I don't understand, though, is how you concluded that the injuries are from barbed wire," Sherlock continued mildly, in a lofty tone.

 

"Afghanistan," John answered curtly. "Forgotten already? Oh no, that's right, you never forget anything. So that was simply an astoundingly obvious attempt to insult me so that I'd lose track of what I was getting at."

 

"Which is?"

 

"To get out of you why you were climbing over a barbed-wire fence." John inspected the wounds and dabbed them once more with antiseptic solution. "At least you're up to date on your tetanus booster."

 

"Yes – thanks to you!" Sherlock hissed through gritted teeth.

 

It didn't exactly sound like he was grateful, but John was used to it.

 

"So. Why were you climbing over a barbed-wire fence?" John repeated his original question.

 

"You never give up, do you?"

 

"And you are never going to answer the question, are you?" John said lightly as he started to place plasters over the area he'd just cleaned.

 

"Well now, that's actually quite interesting," Sherlock murmured after the fifth or sixth plaster.

 

"What is?" John asked, not really paying attention.

 

"I've got an erection."

 

It took exactly one point five seconds before John's brain had processed the message and revealed to him the meaning of what Sherlock had just said. His hands jerked away from his flatmate's body.

 

"What?" he cried, noting with alarm that his voice cracked slightly on the word. "I ... Sherlock ... I'm so sorry ... I didn't mean to ... If I'd known..."

 

"Then you wouldn't have tended to my injuries?" Sherlock interrupted. "Don't be ridiculous." He snorted. "Why should you feel the need to apologise for one of my bodily functions – or rather malfunctions?" Sherlock tossed a look at John over his shoulder that was so utterly absent any trace of arousal that John was able to get himself somewhat under control again.

 

He still couldn't think of anything better to say than to repeat Sherlock's word.

 

"Malfunction." John swallowed thickly. Why did his voice suddenly sound so raw? And why was he embarrassed? If anyone should be embarrassed, it was Sherlock. But his reaction was as academic as ever.

 

"Obviously. My body misinterpreted your medical ministrations for sexual stimulation," Sherlock lectured. "However, I fail to see how that could have happened. Admittedly, such reactions are under the control of the limbic system rather than the brain, and as such occur mainly at a subconscious level." Sherlock turned his gaze away from John and returned his head to exactly the same position it had been in at the start of John's treatment: one cheek against the armrest, both eyes staring straight ahead.

 

"Ah," said John, because absolutely nothing more intelligent came to mind. "Right..." He cleared his throat. "I'll just leave you alone then."

 

Sherlock turned back to him and gave him a once-over, his forehead creased in confusion.

 

"Why?"

 

John squirmed with embarrassment once again.

 

"Well, I mean, you'll want to... take care of the problem," he said, hoping that the heat in his face didn't mean that he was blushing.

 

"Oh, that," Sherlock said dismissively, returning to his previous position. "No, that will go away by itself. I don't see any need to waste energy on doing anything about it."

 

John needed a moment to digest that tidbit. Once he had, he kicked himself for having once again fallen prey to his usual error in judgment. Why did he persist in measuring Sherlock by normal human standards? When would he ever learn that Sherlock simply wasn't normal? He could only shake his head at himself.

 

"Right, then... whatever ... I'm done here anyway."

 

"No more plasters? According to my estimate, there are at least six wounds that haven't been properly cared for," Sherlock stated with perfect accuracy.

 

"Plasters? Oh, right, plasters..." John repeated distractedly, hurrying to affix the remaining bandages. As soon as he was finished, he all but fled the room.

 

The thought of what was pressing against the cushions of the couch made him feel it would be the best thing all around – despite Sherlock's apparent detachment – to put as many walls as possible between himself and his erstwhile patient.

 

 

(to be continued…)

 

There exists already a fanart cover for this story. Fanart makes me happy! The more, the better!

Original link: [Pirateking_Ruffy](http://animexx.onlinewelten.com/fanart/zeichner/141937/2051027/)


	2. the solar system

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The totally awesome SwissMiss is translating the whole story from German to English. I am sooo gratefull for her work. She is doing a fantastic job.

 

**Part 2 - the solar system**

 

A few days later, Sherlock's wounds were healed. At least John assumed they were. Because wild horses couldn't have dragged him into inspecting the detective's backside again. Not as long as said detective's body was so starved for human contact that it produced _malfunctions_ designed only to mortify all participants.

 

John comforted himself by reminding himself that the tetanus booster was good for at least a year, and thanked God that he'd been able to talk Sherlock into having it done. At least he needn't be worried by a bad conscience about neglecting his duties as a doctor.

 

A few days later, then, John was having breakfast and reading the paper when Sherlock came into the kitchen and sat down in the chair at the narrow end of the table. John, who was sitting on the long side of the table, as usual, silently turned the page. Sherlock didn't particularly appreciate being talked at during breakfast.

 

Without saying anything, Sherlock poured himself a cup of tea from the pot that was standing on the table. "Do we still have eggs?" he asked after he'd taken his first sip. He used that posh tone that made the hairs on John's neck stand on end.

 

"In the fridge."

 

"Raw?"

 

"Of course they're raw."

 

"I meant any eggs that had already been cooked," Sherlock replied. John heard the unspoken “ _you idiot”_ at the end of the sentence loud and clear.

 

"I know exactly what you meant," John said, unable to suppress a grin.

 

"You had eggs," Sherlock noted, as if John didn't know that.

 

"Yep"

 

"Why..."

 

John finally took pity on Sherlock and lowered the paper.

 

"I fried some eggs for myself, and I ate them. They were delicious, by the way. If you would like to have some, then you're going to have to haul yourself over to the stove yourself... because just like Mrs Hudson, I'm not your housekeeper."

 

Sherlock crooked one eyebrow and shrugged vaguely with one shoulder. "I wasn't hungry anyway." His gaze turned toward the window, becoming unfocussed.

 

John understood that he had been dismissed. Firm in the knowledge of having scored a victory, a grin found its way onto John's lips. It died immediately, however, when his eyes slid over Sherlock and stopped at a very prominent point of his body.

 

Sherlock took another sip of tea, but rather than putting the cup down, continued to hold it with both hands.

 

"John, I would be grateful if you would stop staring at my penis," Sherlock remarked into the gaping silence, without removing his empty gaze from the window.

 

The doctor, caught out, couldn't do anything other than swallow, loudly and with difficulty.

"Believe me... you couldn't be any more grateful than me." John giggled nervously. "But it's pretty difficult to miss!" He didn't know if it was due to the very nearly obscene tight trousers which his flatmate preferred, or whether he had been endowed so generously by Mother Nature – whatever the reason, a more than obvious erection was outlined through Sherlock's trousers, quite nearly literally jumping out at him.

 

John didn't know what to think. As the utter surrealism of this morning encounter began to dawn on him, his brain decided that it was about time to make himself scarce.

 

"Just do what I do, John. Ignore it," Sherlock advised him coolly.

 

John didn't think he had heard Sherlock correctly.

"Igno--" He blinked several times. "Ignore. How do you ignore an erection?" He realised that his voice was devolving into hysterical screeches, and moderated his tone for the sake of Mrs Hudson and the other neighbours. "Why do you even have one? I can't recall having touched you recently, either in a medical sense, or sexually, or... or anything else," John declared firmly. "It can't be my..."

 

"I know that," Sherlock interrupted him. "Nevertheless, it is your fault."

 

"Sorry, my fault?" John spluttered. He blinked again. He was going to have to stop doing that before he developed a nervous tic. On the other hand, he was living with Sherlock Holmes. Who was he trying to fool? It was very nearly a miracle that he'd managed to maintain his mental health intact up to now. At least for the most part... This business with the erections, however... this might finally be the thing that drove him round the bend.

 

"My fault?" John exclaimed again.

 

"Who else could be at fault? Since you've lived here, you've forced me to eat, to sleep, and to keep myself hydrated," Sherlock enumerated the facts soberly. "My body has too much excess energy – and as we don't have a case on..."

 

"No case?!" John repeated. One more thing he'd have to get out of the habit of doing. He was starting to sound like a parrot. "No case? What about--"

 

"NO case, John!" Sherlock forced out through gritted teeth. "If the secretary has a blue car, she did it. If the brother has a walker, he did. Lestrade knows all about it."

 

John swallowed.

"My fault?"

 

"Your fault," Sherlock confirmed matter-of-factly. "Quite reasonable of you to admit to it."

 

"So? Are you going to keep ignoring it?" John asked mechanically, as his brain had stepped out for a bit in the face of the overwhelming flood of information.

 

Sherlock shrugged slightly and pushed his lower lip forward.

"It's worked well since puberty. Why should I change something about a system that runs so smoothly?" He took another sip of tea and put the cup down. "Is there at least any toast and jam?"

 

"Excuse me?" John shook his head and squeezed his eyes closed briefly. Had he heard that correctly? "Since... Do you mean to say... You've never..." He snapped his jaw shut. What was he doing? He cleared his throat. "Right, it's absolutely none of my business, if you..."

 

"Never _what_?" Sherlock prompted, his brow creased. "I've never done _what_?"

 

"Well..." John cleared his throat again. It was bone-dry and his voice was cracking in a way it hadn't done since he'd finished secondary school. "Forget it," he deflected. "Just forget it. It's really none of my business."

 

"What? Forget _what_? John!"

 

Great. Now he'd awakened the detective's curiosity. Now he wouldn't have any peace until he told him. He might as well get it over with as quickly and painlessly as possible. Then maybe this entire embarrassing episode would be done with.

 

"Well, you know..." He made a pointed movement with his hand at the level of his navel. He felt that unwelcome warmth rising to his cheeks again; the same one he'd felt when he was putting the plasters on Sherlock. Right. Who was he trying to fool again? He was blushing. He couldn't deny it any longer.

 

"Oh that," Sherlock said dismissively, wrinkling his nose in disgust. "No, I've never achieved ejaculation through mechanical stimulation." He picked up the newspaper, which had slid out of John's numb fingers at some point during the conversation. "Ah, that's where you hid the toast."

 

"Never?!" John asked, wondering why his voice sounded so hoarse. "Not even with..." _someone else_ , he'd wanted to say, but that seemed to be unnecessary, given the look of disinterest on Sherlock's face. Bloody hell... Sherlock must still be a virgin! Why did that surprise him so much on the one hand, and on the other hand, not at all?

 

"No. Why should I?" Sherlock asked, bewildered, and took a bite of toast.

 

"Because it's... an indescribable feeling ... to have an orgasm..." John stopped himself. How was he supposed to make Sherlock understand what he was missing? He could probably do just as well without it and use his energy for other things. And really, it was absolutely none of his business.

 

"Why should an orgasm be something I would desire?" Sherlock asked.

 

John observed him as closely as he could, but all he could find in his expression was academic curiosity; no trace of lust or arousal.

 

"You’re beyond help," he finally declared.

 

Sherlock's gaze darkened.

"I don't think that an orgasm will help me in my work," he stated with his usual arrogance.

 

"Like the solar system?" John couldn't resist teasing.

 

"Not again!" Sherlock groaned, irritated. "Are you never going to let that go? Or is an orgasm approximately as important as the solar system?" Sherlock added cynically. "Maybe even more important. Aside from that..."

 

"I refuse to discuss orgasms with you any further as long as you're sitting there in front of me with an erection," John broke in.

 

Sherlock made that face again: that face that expressed intelligence and complete lack of understanding at the same time.

"What? Why?" he demanded.

 

But John refused to answer. Instead, he stood up and left the room. His quota for surrealism had been filled for the morning. More than filled.

 

And he wasn't particularly eager to hear anything more about erections for a long time. Or solar systems.

 

**_(to be continued…)_ **


	3. Research

 

A week passed without further embarrassment, perhaps due to an interesting case which came to the attention of the residents of Baker Street.

 

That morning, John had just added the final details to his post about the now completed case – involving the vanished prototype of a revolutionary race-car engine – under the title _"Silver Blaze: The Case of the Missing Horsepower"_ , when he realised that there was no milk in the house.

 

Sherlock had only left his room once the entire morning, in order to go to the bathroom. John suspected that the detective had finally fallen victim to the overwhelming sleep deficit he'd accumulated. During the past few days, in fact, even John had found little opportunity to sleep longer than three hours at a time. He assumed, based on previous experience, that Sherlock hadn't slept at all. This hypothesis was further supported by the fact that he had found his flatmate often enough lying on the couch in exactly the same pose he'd been in when John had gone to bed hours before.

 

John would have liked to catch up on some sleep as well, now that the case was finished, but their larder was depleted not only of milk, but also of any other foodstuffs, as a thorough inspection of the refrigerator and the cupboards made clear.

 

He therefore decided to go shopping.

 

As he was pulling on his jacket and sticking his wallet in his pocket, he called out in the direction of Sherlock's bedroom, "Sherlock! I'm nipping out to the shops. Do you need anything?"

 

The answer came back muffled by the door: "Why would I need anything?"

 

"How in the world should I know?" John muttered to himself.

 

"Cigarettes!" This time, the response was louder.

 

John rolled his eyes.

"You know you're not getting any!"

 

"But I need them! Why do you ask what I need if you're not going to bring it anyway? That is completely illogical!"

 

"I only meant..." John began, then sighed and mumbled, "Doesn't matter anyway." Then, louder: "I'm going now!"

 

As he went down the stairs, he considered whether ginger biscuits might distract Sherlock from his craving for cigarettes, at least for a while. Sherlock could really be insufferable following a case.

 

When John returned a good hour later – laden down with three shopping bags – he thought he heard some sounds and voices on his way up to their flat. Had a client come while he was out? He stopped to listen, but couldn't hear anything more. He shrugged his shoulders and went up the last few steps. He must have been mistaken, or heard the telly. Although that wasn't very likely, as he hadn't heard Sherlock's voice, and Sherlock loved to interrupt both clients and the television in order to correct them.

 

John had arrived at the top of the stairs by now, and opened the door to their flat.

 

"Sherlock, I'm back!" he called out. When there was no reaction, he set the bags down in the hall and went into the living room.

 

Sherlock was sitting there, in pyjamas and a dressing gown, staring at the screen of a laptop with an expression of utmost concentration.

 

Curious, John stepped closer in order to see what had captured the detective's interest. All of a sudden, there were the voices again, but now John realised that they were coming out of the laptop's speaker. Just as he got close enough to see what was on the screen, the voices (male and female) began moaning in an obscene manner.

 

"Sherlock! What in the world...!" he exclaimed in shock.

 

The screen displayed an unambiguous close-up.

 

Sherlock didn't even look up.

"Hello, John," he greeted him with equanimity.

 

"What are you doing?!" John cried, aghast.

 

On the screen, another man joined the already sweaty pair.

 

"Research," Sherlock answered neutrally.

 

"Could... couldn't you do that in your room?" John asked in dismay.

 

Sherlock glanced up at him briefly before returning to the screen in front of him.

"You're upset. It bothers you that it's pornography."

 

John gaped.

"Absolutely. Spot on, Sherlock," he noted dryly.

 

"I don't see any reason for sarcasm," Sherlock responded briskly.

 

"You don't?"

 

"No," Sherlock answered in a business-like manner. "After all, you're the one who insisted that I do something about my erections."

 

"So you're watching internet porn." It was half question, half statement. John was just about at the end of his rope. How was he supposed he get through to a man who had no sense of shame that he was breaking just about every unwritten rule of conduct with his behaviour? He'd have to start with very clear instructions.

 

"Do that in your own room, and not in our living room! Mrs Hudson could come in any minute."

 

Just then, Sherlock interrupted, directing the full force of those improbably intense eyes on John for the first time that day.

 

"First of all: I am not watching porn, I'm doing research," he stated in the tone of voice he used when speaking to a person he believed to be intellectually challenged. "Second: I am not using the internet."

 

"Not using--" It hit John what exactly Sherlock was watching. He'd thought the one woman had looked familiar. "That's MY laptop!" he roared, beside himself. "And those are MY--" John stopped speaking and felt the colour in his face rising. Fuck. He was going to have to get this bloody blushing under control.

 

"This is your collection of porn," Sherlock helpfully completed John's sentence. He then clicked on the Stop button to reduce the player, followed by clicking on the next film in the folder that became visible. "Saving them under _'Holiday Photos'_ wasn't particularly original."

 

Coincidence seemed to be on John's side, as just then, Sherlock leaned back in the chair, allowing his dressing gown to fall open.

 

"Sherlock, say what you will, but the fact is: you are consuming porn and you have an erection."

 

This simple declaration caused the first reaction other than the cultivated coolness that Sherlock had displayed until that point.

 

"I know!" Sherlock cried, irritated. "It's nice of you to draw my attention to the fact, but wholly unnecessary. Anyway, it's not because of the porn. I had it before, and it's really becoming quite annoying. Winter is almost over."

 

"Winter?" John asked, completely flummoxed. "What does the weather have to do with it? Anyway, it's only November."

 

Sherlock snorted disdainfully.

"I personally don't understand the reasoning, but walking around Scotland Yard sporting an erection is frowned upon. As the winter will be over at some point, I won't be able to go there and keep my coat buttoned."

 

The utter absurdity of the situation slowly began to dawn on John.

"Not if you don't want to be accused of being a sex fiend," he returned with a grin.

 

"The correct terminology would be _exciting a public nuisance_ ," Sherlock lectured him snootily. His high-nosed attitude would have made a greater impression on John if his pyjamas hadn't been doing an impression of a circus tent between his legs.

 

"And that's why you're doing research." John made an effort to speak in a neutral tone, but failed miserably, unable to keep the gloating out of his voice.

 

Sherlock started to cross his legs, then changed his mind and leaned forward to place his elbows on the desk top. He regarded John with a very calculating look in his eye, causing alarm bells to ring in John's head.

 

"The problem is becoming more acute," Sherlock admitted, observing John even more intensely, if that were possible. "Still... John, you're a doctor--"

 

John lifted his hands in protest.

"Leave me out of this!" he exclaimed in horror.

 

"But you're a doctor!" Sherlock repeated stubbornly and a bit louder. "Is this whole thing" – he gestured toward the screen, where a dildo of unusual size was being implemented – "not rather unhealthy?"

 

John almost had to laugh in the face of such naiveté, but he pulled himself together. He didn't want to hurt Sherlock, and – as God was his witness – Sherlock could be very easily insulted.

 

"No, Sherlock," he answered with a smile, using his ' _everything's-going-to-be-fine_ ' doctor voice. "It won't make your palms hairy, and you won't go blind."

 

To his surprise, Sherlock was better informed than he'd thought, as he simply rolled his eyes at the ceiling.

"Not _that_! I mean the respiration rate, the heart rate – the strain on the circulatory system and blood pressure; the hormones, the endorphins, my God, you're a doctor, how much detail do I need to go into?"

 

And there was the Sherlock he knew: the Sherlock who would only be satisfied with an answer based on scientific facts. He therefore took his time before answering: "Sex or masturbation is no more unhealthy than long-distance running."

 

John could virtually see this new information being weighed against all the data already present in Sherlock's brain, then moved into storage.

 

"But then..."

 

John shook his head.

"No. First of all, you won't get rid of your problem by taking up long-distance running. At least not in the long term. Physical exhaustion may make you incapable of sustaining an erection for a time, but that's not a permanent solution. And second, _it is_ definitely more fun than running a marathon." John couldn't help smirking.

 

It was actually rather amusing to see the problems Sherlock's sexuality was causing him, and how he fought against the dictate of his body with every means at his disposal. But the really amusing part was that John knew Sherlock would eventually lose. At some point, his body would win the battle and emerge from under the yoke of that brilliant mind. At some point, Sherlock Holmes would have to satiate his appetites, like any other human being.

 

Sherlock briefly bit his lower lip, looking pensive.

"It still seems to have a weakening affect on the organism," he said finally. "Are you certain that _male_ ejaculation--"

 

"Hold on," John broke in. His amusement had given way to bewilderment once again. "MALE ejaculation?"

 

Sherlock gave him a look that was the picture of innocence.

"Did you not know that? My research regarding ejaculation in general has shown that _women_ are able, in certain circumstances--"

 

But John was already at the door with both hands over his ears.

"I don't want to hear this!" he cried. "Just do something about your problem, but in _your_ room and with _your own_ laptop. And soon!"

 

"John, couldn't you--"

 

"No matter how that question was going to end, the answer is NO!" John yelled and slammed the door behind him.

 

 

_**(to be continued...)** _


	4. the easiest thing in the world

 

 

The next week was occupied with solving the Case of the Must-Have Ritual – a series of inexplicable events in a well-known department store.

 

After that, John was busy for several days updating his blog, while Sherlock turned his attention to his chemical experiments, as John found out one fine Wednesday when he innocently opened the refrigerator.

 

"On no..." He wearily closed the fridge and went back to the living room, where Sherlock was hunched over on a bar stool (John had no idea how it had arrived at the flat), staring through a microscope that he'd balanced on a cardboard box and several books piled up on the table in order to get it at the right height for the bar stool. He'd been at it for hours.

 

"Why are there freezer bags full of human fingers in our fridge?" John asked with all the lassitude he could muster.

 

"Problem?" Sherlock asked without looking up from the microscope.

 

"Yes!" John retorted. "I do, in fact, have a problem with it. It would be nice, for once, if there were room in the refrigerator for something that wouldn't attract a peckish cannibal."

 

"I don't actually need the fingers," Sherlock replied, without directly acknowledging John's remark. He adjusted his microscope slightly. "Ah..."

 

John fought to maintain his cool. "But?"

 

"But what?" Sherlock asked absently.

 

"You just said that you don't actually need the fingers. That's why I'd like to know why they are, nevertheless, in our refrigerator," John explained with exaggerated politeness.

 

"Oh that – why didn't you say so in the first place?" Sherlock removed the slide from the microscope and looked up. "I actually only need the fingernails for an experiment. But Molly was strangely uncooperative when I told her she should remove the nails from the fingers with a pair of forceps."

 

John decided to refrain from any further comment in lieu of taking deep breaths.

"Astounding," he finally commented in a sarcastic tone. "I can't imagine why she didn't want to do you the favour."

 

"My point exactly," Sherlock said. He was clearly having one of those days when sarcasm didn't register.

 

"Maybe you should just take her out for coffee sometime," said John, before withdrawing to his armchair with a sigh of resignation and continuing to work on his blog with his computer on his lap.

 

"I assume that you are using ' _take her out for coffee_ ' here to mean a date," Sherlock remarked.

 

"You nailed that one, you did," John said, grinning and looking up at Sherlock. From his lower vantage point, he saw that Sherlock's trousers were bulging at a very specific spot. His grin vanished.

"I think it would be best if you took Molly out for coffee _today_. Maybe she'll be nice enough to help you out with your problem," he said dryly. He was slightly annoyed that Sherlock hadn't done anything about it yet, and he was slowly but surely getting tired of getting an eyeful of Sherlock's erections.

 

Sherlock followed the line of John's vision and snorted derisively.

"Why do you keep riding that topic? Don't you have anything better to do? Or does it threaten you?" He laid a finger across his lips and regarded John with a look that could only be described as naked curiosity.

 

"Threatened?" John gasped. "Threatened? I was in Afghanistan!"

 

Sherlock's lips curled ever so slightly. "I know – you never tire of mentioning that."

 

"I do not..." John defended himself indignantly, before reminding himself to keep calm. If he didn't watch out, this conversation would degrade into a childish exchange of ' _yes you do's_ ' and _'no I don't's_ '. He wanted to avoid that at all costs, as he had the sneaking suspicion that he would emerge the loser. "What I was trying to say was, when I was a soldier, I saw more than my fair share of morning wood, some even more impressive than that – and I never felt in the least bit threatened. I am simply tired of constantly having to view your erections. So do something about it, or let Molly or someone else help you out."

 

Sherlock returned John's disgruntled look with a slightly hurt look of his own.

"I'll take care of it myself."

 

"Yeah, okay – only it's not happening," John badgered him.

 

"I – am – working – on – it," Sherlock replied in an unnecessarily loud tone, enunciating each word with exact precision. Then he breathed in audibly through his nose and continued more quietly and a bit more quickly, "It isn't that easy after all."

 

There was absolute silence for several seconds, during which John stared at his flatmate with his mouth hanging open. Then he let out a perplexed chuckle.

"Yes, in fact, it is," he said. "It's the easiest thing in the world."

 

The detective's long fingers drummed a nervous staccato on his thigh. "No, it isn't," he insisted. "How many years' experience do you have with it?"

 

This time John's chuckle sounded slightly miffed.

"I don't know that that's any of your business."

 

Sherlock locked his gaze onto John.

"All right then, we'll do it this way. You were thirteen and a half ... no, fourteen. Late bloomer. Set off by ... a film with Catherine Deneuve? Jane Birkin? Possible. But you're not very imaginative. A woman in the area. Someone you knew. A friend of your mother's? No, too old... Your current target demographic is women in your same general age category. Since you're a man of consistency, that will have always been the case. A classmate? Mmh... too unlikely. Fourteen-year-old girls weren't sexy enough back then. Ah! One of your sister's friends from school. No, your sister would have noticed and exacted revenge, or worse, told your mother. But ... oh yes, of course! Your sister's young, pretty piano teacher!" Sherlock concluded his rapid deduction.

 

"How..." John interjected, baffled, then nearly bit his own tongue. Why had he just given Sherlock the confirmation he was seeking?

 

The corners of Sherlock's mouth curled upward in self-satisfaction.

"Let us recap then: you have over twenty years of experience with auto-erotic stimulation. Of course it will seem easy to you after all that time!"

 

"It was easy the first time!"

 

"Of course! Because you were a teenager at the mercy of your hormones," Sherlock responded. "You probably would have gotten off just thinking about it."

 

"So?" John retorted defensively. "You're also about to go off at the drop of a hat, from the looks of it. What's the difference?"

 

"I..." Sherlock's expression became uncertain and he picked a non-existent piece of lint off his shirt. "I don't know," he finally admitted quietly. "It's certainly not due to a lack of ability to achieve and maintain arousal. It's probably because I am not in possession of all the facts in this... area."

 

John observed Sherlock's cramped posture and decided to give in. Sherlock really did appear to be suffering. He – as a doctor – shouldn't contribute to it any further.

 

"I don't think that's it," he said in what he thought was a soothing tone of voice. "You're probably just not relaxed enough."

 

"Relaxed?" Sherlock asked with the expression of a greyhound that had caught a scent but wasn't yet certain whether it led to its prey. "What does relaxation have to do with it? And anyway, I am relaxed."

 

"You aren't, believe me," John contradicted him with a smile. "Relaxation is usually the most important thing ... the key to success. Being under pressure to perform or being impatient are generally counterproductive. Take your time ... maybe have a glass of wine beforehand ... a warm bath."

 

Sherlock's expression changed perceptibly from one second to the next. He had started out listening attentively, but now his eyebrows drew together ominously.

 

"Oh please!" he interrupted John loudly in a voice that was dripping with sarcasm. "Please, just stop with your dear old Doc spiel before you stoop to prescribing rose petals in the bath and candlelight romance. I am not one of your frigid, desperate housewives who beat down your door at the surgery and are appeased with such utter tripe. Don't you think I've already tried everything?" Sherlock was whipping himself into such a tremendous rage that the sinews in his neck were standing out. "It hinders my thought process! I can't concentrate any more! If I didn't have this... problem... then.... John! I should have solved that last case in only two days! My work is beginning to suffer and you have nothing better to suggest than a relaxing bubble bath? This condition is driving me mad and you recommend alcohol? John, that is truly far below your usual standards, and in addition it isn't--"

 

John's mood had also taken a decided turn for the worse by now. At the start of Sherlock's tirade, he had truly been sympathetic to his flatmate, but when he began to insult him – again – the fire of John's fury was re-ignited.

 

"I was only trying to give you some advice based on my decades of experience," John steamrollered over him. "And even though I should know you by now, I actually thought that you might be grateful this time." John pressed his lips together into a narrow line. That was his only concession to his anger and disappointment over Sherlock's behaviour. That and the slight tremor in his voice. "But I suppose I'm wrong. As always. But since my usual standards are already so low they might as well be underground, it's no wonder. Therefore, in future I will spare you any further unwelcome advice." He got up and took his laptop under his arm. "If you want to apologise, I'll be in my room." He went to the door.

 

Sherlock watched him, unmoving.

 

In the doorway, John turned around once more.

"I really wouldn't have thought it possible, but blue balls make you even more insufferable than usual."

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

The next day, John was able to bag a date with Caroline for that coming Saturday. It would be their third date, and John hoped that he wouldn't be spending the night in his own bed.

 

He didn't see much of Sherlock for the next couple of days. That was fine with him, since his flatmate still hadn't seen fit to apologise. Sherlock seemed to spend most of the time in his own room. Although John often came home from work to find the living room in a desolate state. John didn't take it too hard. They had gone for days without speaking to each other before. Everything would work itself out eventually.

 

When Saturday evening finally arrived, John put on his carefully selected clothing (with special attention paid to the underwear) and made his way to Caroline's to pick her up for dinner. He had bought flowers for her and reserved a table in a popular French restaurant (whose prices made him break out in a cold sweat – but a night with Caroline was worth it) and after that, they could either take in a movie (he had written down the starting times of a couple rom-coms just in case) or go for a romantic walk in the park – snuggled together, of course, as the early December nights were already quite chilly.

 

The evening was planned down to the last detail. Nothing could go wrong.

 

But man struggles in vain against the whims of fate. The date turned into a huge disaster, and John ended up being home before ten.

 

Not suspecting anything, he entered the dimly lit living room. Only one of the lamps was on. He was so miserable about his bad luck that the only thing he noticed at first was that Sherlock was lying on the couch. He was just about to say hello when he became aware of several things at once.

 

First: a laptop sat on the coffee table, its screen displaying naked bodies in rhythmic motion. The sound must have been turned off, since he couldn't hear even the faintest moan.

 

Second: Sherlock was wearing nothing but a dressing gown.

 

Third: Sherlock was holding his erect penis in his right hand.

 

"Sherlock... what in the..." John swallowed heavily. "What are you doing?"

 

A thin film of sweat had formed on Sherlock's forehead and upper lip, making them glow dully in the dim room. His eyelids were half closed – it would have been an erotic image if his body language hadn't exuded a mixture of exhaustion and desperation.

 

"Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock replied somewhat sluggishly. "I'm masturbating. Or am I so utterly useless at it that you can't even tell?"

 

John knew that Sherlock was aiming for sarcasm, but his words contained something like apprehension ... which was why the effect on John was much different than what Sherlock probably intended.

 

"No... Yes... I mean, of course I can tell what you're doing. But why are you doing it here? Why not in your own room?" John stammered, wavering between confusion and embarrassment.

 

"I didn't expect you back tonight. It was the third date, after all... You're wearing your fuck-me-shoes and you put on your fuck-me-aftershave. What happened? What did you do to torpedo your sure thing?" Sherlock asked, with only a light sprinkling of his usual arrogance.

 

"Why do you automatically assume it was my fault?" John asked, slightly insulted.

 

"I can tell by your trouser pockets," Sherlock answered curtly. "And if I weren't currently otherwise occupied, I could explain to you in graphic detail how you bollixed it up."

 

"I made too much fuss over an old female friend we happened to see and spilled red wine on her dress," John muttered, still despondent and angry at himself.

 

Sherlock's eye wandered over John's clothing. He snorted, amused.

"Oh, of course," he said, half to himself. "As I said, I thought you wouldn't be coming home tonight, wanted to make myself comfortable, relax... just following your medical advice."

 

John's ears pricked up. His friend's words weren't as crisply accented as usual. The lazy enunciation made John wonder, until his eye fell on the nearly empty bottle of wine on the coffee table.

 

"Sherlock!" he cried in mild rebuke. "I said one glass! Not one bottle!"

 

With a wave of his hand, Sherlock dismissed the accusation. He took his other hand off his erection and covered his lower body carelessly with his dressing gown. "Not to worry. The bottle was only half full. I didn't have more than two glasses. The truth is – alcohol goes right to my head."

 

John shook his head in consternation.

"If you knew that then you shouldn't have drunk so much."

 

"Possibly," Sherlock admitted. "But I wasn't relaxed after the first glass."

 

"Ah... okay... good." John cleared his throat. He was only now becoming aware of the magnitude of the awkwardness of the situation, and he wanted to remove himself from it as quickly as possible. "I think I'll head up to bed and give you some privacy."

 

"No!" Sherlock cried, his half-closed eyelids now popping open. "No... John! Please..." Sherlock sat up abruptly. His fingers curled into the edge of the cushions.

 

John was already prepared for Sherlock to spring up, but to his befuddlement, he remained seated. Only his stare became more intense.

 

John turned alternately hot and cold under the weight of that stare. The pleading in those otherwise so cold eyes boded nothing good. The entire scene was taking a turn that was anything but pleasant for him. He had to get out of there. Fast.

 

"Sherlock, I don't think..."

 

"John!" The supplication in those incredible grey eyes increased in intensity, and his voice sank to a fast, hoarse whisper. "I don't know what I'm doing wrong. It's simply not working. John... I wouldn't ask you if it weren't absolutely necessary. You're a doctor! Help me. Please. I can't stand this one second longer."

 

"Sherlock..." John attempted one final, if half-hearted, rebuttal. He had the sinking feeling that his fate was already sealed.

 

"Please," Sherlock repeated, and John's last defence crumbled.

 

He loosened his tie, which seemed far too tight all of a sudden, as if it were cutting off his air supply. Then he took a deep breath and said, "Not one single word to anyone! Even the slightest hint in any form whatsoever and you'll be very sorry. Very, very sorry. I'm a doctor and I was a soldier. That means that not only do I know the location of every bone in the human body... I also know how to break them."

 

A vague smile rose to Sherlock's face.

"You'll stay? You'll help me?"

 

"Yes... I'll help you," John replied. He slowly approached the couch. "God, what am I doing?" he muttered to himself. "I must have gone mad."

 

With every step he took, he felt himself turning more and more into a male version of Alice. The only thing he didn't know was whether he was about to fall down a rabbit hole or through a mirror.

 

 

_**(to be continued...)** _


	5. helping hands

Never Change a Running System

 

Part 5

 

Once John was standing in front of the couch, he had the sense that reality had ceased existing and he had somehow found himself in an utterly bizarre parallel universe. His heart was in his throat.

 

Why did Sherlock have to demand this from him, of all the things to ask? Compared to this, punching him in that alley had been a piece of cake. Why couldn't it be something easy again, like fisticuffs between a couple of mates?

 

It was Sherlock's searching, patient, and trusting look that brought him back to reality and his brain back to the land of reason.

 

It became clear to John that he was currently miles outside of his comfort zone as a heterosexual man. In order to help his friend, he was going to have to stop thinking like a _man_. He was going to have to draw on his _doctor_ persona. He was still well within the core of his comfort zone in his role as a doctor, and he would probably need to remain there for the duration of this... favour between friends.

 

John cleared his throat and concentrated on being a doctor.

 

Without thinking too hard about it, he sat down beside Sherlock.

 

Sherlock still hadn't moved. He had merely turned his head and was watching John silently. The pleading in his eyes had given way to a calm certainty, stemming from the knowledge that someone was going to take care of him. When John realised this, his heart swelled with warmth. At least in this regard, Sherlock's trust in his abilities seemed to be limitless.

 

John tucked his leg up underneath him in order to be able to reach Sherlock better. Stupidly, the arm between him and Sherlock was in the way, so he had to lay it across the back of the couch. A slight warmth rose to his cheeks. He might as well have put his arm around Sherlock's shoulders. But he didn't want to get quite that close to him.

 

He didn't want Sherlock to draw the wrong conclusion, as he had during their first date.... Date? John shook his head at himself. Meeting! At their first ... meeting ... session ... dinner ... whatever it had been.

 

"Right." John cleared his throat again. "What have you done already?"

 

The quiet confidence on Sherlock's face gave way to weariness, the same look he got when he had to deal with someone he thought was an idiot.

 

"You saw what I was doing."

 

"Yeah... yeah, of course," John assured him. "I meant, how were you doing it?"

 

"How?" Sherlock's forehead wrinkled. "Like that." He pointed at the laptop, which neither of them had been paying attention to.

 

A man was visible on the screen, standing over a woman and moving his hand frantically.

 

"All right," John said firmly. "We're going to forget all about that." He leaned forward and closed the laptop lid. "Sherlock, have you considered the fact that those porn movies are just made to look good? And that they therefore shouldn't necessarily be taken as examples of what to do? Not everything that looks good on screen feels good in real life."

 

"Oh." Sherlock's face reflected his sudden understanding, along with something like annoyance that he hadn't worked that out for himself.

 

"You know, there are also books ... self-help books on the topic," John continued. "Pornography isn't the only thing out there."

 

"Those books are for adolescents," Sherlock retorted, a bit too arrogantly for John's taste, but he decided not to mention it.

 

"Whatever..." John understood that the topic was closed. "Just... just put your hand on it. Like you were before."

 

An eyebrow rose.

"I thought... you could?" Sherlock said softly.

 

John's heart began racing at a speed that was definitely not conducive to good health. Sherlock was just going to let him... touch him? Him? Another man? In order to calm himself, John concentrated on the only thing he could think of at the moment.

 

_I'm a doctor... I'm a doctor... I'm a doctor._

 

Once he was able to string more than two words together again, he said, "Just because I said I'd help you doesn't mean that I'm going to do all the work. I'm the expert here – as you so kindly deduced a few days ago. Therefore, I give the directions and you follow them. All right?"

 

The ghost of a smile whispered over Sherlock's lips. So quickly that John wasn't certain he'd really seen it in the dim light.

 

Sherlock parted his dressing gown once again, and put his right hand around his still stiff erection.

 

"Erm... Sherlock ... a bit looser ... you don't want to strangle it," John suggested. "And a little lubrication wouldn't hurt... wait." John fumbled in his back pocket and pulled out the plastic packet with the condom as well as the sample of lube that had been in the box of condoms. He'd put them both in there earlier with the intention of using them for a completely different purpose.

 

He tore open the packet of lubricant with his teeth, only just then noticing the _'I knew it'_ look that Sherlock was giving him.

 

"Yes – those are my fuck-me-shoes and that's my fuck-me-aftershave, and this is my fuck-me-emergency-stash," John admitted with slight ill-temper. "Yes, you were right. I was planning on getting a leg over tonight. Happy? Give me your hand."

 

Fortunately, Sherlock withheld comment and held out his right hand. John squeezed the gel onto Sherlock's palm.

 

"Might be a bit chilly," John warned him, but Sherlock was too quick and had already wrapped his hand around himself again. He hissed in sharply.

 

"Aaah..."

 

There was something about the sound, coupled with the way Sherlock tossed his head back that struck a hidden chord in John.

 

"It gets better," he said softly. "That stuff warms up quickly." Without thinking about it, he reached over and laid his hand over his friend's.

 

Sherlock shuddered at first, but he relaxed again immediately and sank down lower on the couch.

 

"That's right," John agreed. "Relax... lean back and think of something.... nice. Then..."

 

"Something nice?" Sherlock asked, bewildered.

 

"You know," John said awkwardly. "Something that... gets your motor revving." Sherlock's expression continued to reflect his lack of understanding. John, on the other hand, was having something of a Eureka moment. "Sherlock..." he asked carefully, "Sherlock, could it be... that you haven't been thinking of anything? I mean, nothing... stimulating?"

 

Sherlock shook his head uncertainly and John sighed. He let go with his hand, resting it on top of Sherlock's thigh instead.

 

"I think we've just localised the main problem. Didn't you know that the brain is the largest human sexual organ? And by ' _brain_ ' I don't mean your normally brilliant mind. I mean _fantasies_. Sexual fantasies, to be perfectly frank."

 

"Fantasies," Sherlock repeated thoughtfully. He obviously needed to work through this new information first.

 

"Yes, fantasies," John confirmed. "You can also think of it like playing a movie in your head. Imagine something. Something erotic. Something... no idea, just something you like."

 

"But I can't think of anything," Sherlock said quietly.

 

"I can't believe that," John objected. "You've watched all those movies. You must have liked something. Otherwise you wouldn't have—"

 

"I already told you," Sherlock said, his impatience audible, "I'm not getting these erections because of pornography. They're just there in the morning when I wake up."

 

John sighed again. This was worse than pulling teeth while grenades were flying over their heads.

"You had erotic dreams?"

 

"Possible... but I don't remember."

 

"All right then, how about something else... Did you like any of the women in the movies?"

 

"No."

 

"The men?" John asked carefully, bracing himself.

 

Shrug. Head shaking.

"Not really."

 

"Okay..." John was somewhat at a loss now. "Maybe we can just start and you can search through your mind palace for something you can use as an erotic fantasy."

 

Sherlock nodded soberly.

 

"Now relax..." John said quietly, covered Sherlock's fingers with his hand again and began to move it gently up and down.

 

Sherlock allowed him to direct his hand with surprising willingness.

 

"That's better, isn't it?" John whispered after a while.

 

"Yes..." Sherlock sighed and stretched his body a little, only to sink even more deeply into the cushions afterwards.

 

John didn't really know what he was supposed to do, so he did what he was used to. Gentle, petting motions... becoming a bit faster. With a bit more pressure toward the head, and then looser again on the way back down.

 

The action was almost hypnotic. John realised that he was staring at Sherlock's hard cock and at both of their hands, moving in a steady rhythm. John felt himself growing warmer, and he licked his lips, which had suddenly become rather dry. What would it be like if...

 

Before he could complete the thought, he got hold of himself. Instead of staring at Sherlock's penis, which was obviously only going to get him into trouble, John raised his eyes to Sherlock's upper body.

 

Sherlock had closed his eyes, and the thin film of sweat was now shimmering not only on his forehead and upper lip, but on his chest as well, which was rising and falling gently in rhythm with his deep breaths.

 

Lost in thought and without looking down, John let his thumb glide over the tip of Sherlock's member.

 

The reaction was immediate and consisted of a catlike arching of his upper body and a throaty sigh. Something pulsed deep in John's body.

 

"Again?" he flustered hoarsely.

 

"Yes..." Sherlock answered in a voice that was a major third lower than usual. The pulsing in John's body grew stronger. "Please," Sherlock murmured, biting his lower lip.

 

As if in a trance, John obeyed. Every time their hands peaked at the top of the motion, John rubbed his thumb in a circle over Sherlock's glans. Every time, Sherlock's sighs became louder, until they were more like drawn-out moans. When John felt his thumb glide with greater ease over the hot skin, he realised the increase in lubrication must be due to the first drops of pre-come. Sherlock must have found an adequate fantasy.

 

John's arm was starting to get sore. He wondered how long they had been sitting there already, but the answer didn't particularly interest him. Time and space had somehow lost their meaning.

 

John paused in his movement.

 

"John... what..." Sherlock panted and popped his eyes open.

 

A shiver ran down John's back when he looked into those wide-open eyes. The pupils were large and dark from arousal, but there was also a trace of fear in them.

 

"Take your other hand," John instructed him in a quiet voice. "Put it on your testicles."

 

"Why?"

 

"Trust me. You'll like it," John murmured.

 

Sherlock shifted his weight in order to get his hand in the right place, causing him to lean more against John than against the back of the couch.

 

"And now..." John was about to say, when Sherlock instinctively did just the right thing. "Exactly," John praised him. "Just run your fingers over them..." He swallowed heavily. Why was his throat so dry all of a sudden? And why was his heart racing out of control?

 

"Ooh, yess..." Sherlock groaned, and pressed more firmly against John. His head was resting on John's shoulder, and John realised to his surprise that his other arm wasn't resting on the back of the couch any longer, but across Sherlock's shoulders.

 

It turned out it felt good and right to embrace his friend like that.

 

A single drop of sweat trickled down Sherlock's temple, and John caught himself watching its path, entranced... over the temple... past that ridiculously high cheekbone... down toward his mouth... that upper lip with the incredible Cupid's Bow... the strong jaw ... that long, long neck... the unblemished white skin – only interrupted here and there by a few small scars...

 

"John... please..."

 

Christ... that was the second time Sherlock had said 'please'. John swallowed again. But nothing helped, his throat was parched. His eyes hung on his friend's face, as if he were under a spell.

 

Slowly, he began to move his hand again. A deeply satisfied sigh escaped Sherlock's lips, and John wondered again what it would feel like if...

 

But once again, he forbade himself from finishing the thought. Instead, he devoted his full concentration to the task at hand of giving his friend some relief. His movements became faster, almost erratic. He slowly increased the pressure, enjoying the sight of that white skin becoming rosy with increased arousal.

 

John recognised the signs, likely before Sherlock did, that it was almost over.

 

Sherlock's body had become as taut as a violin string, his mouth hanging slightly open, his breath coming in fits and starts. Only incoherent sounds passed his lips. Sweat glowed on his brow – a few black curls were plastered to his temple. His eyes were squeezed shut, his cheek pressed very nearly painfully against John's shoulder.

 

A shudder. A pause. A brief moment of rigour, of breathlessness. A pulsing under John's hand, and Sherlock was shaking in John's arms.

 

The absolute surrender and vulnerability, the trust and the lack of shame, the amazement, the deep satisfaction - all those things that played themselves out on Sherlock's face in that moment - made John speechless, nearly struck with awe.

 

He wondered if Sherlock would look like that every time he... _"You'll never know,"_ he told himself, and for some unfathomable reason, the thought made him sad.

 

Sherlock's body relaxed bit by bit. John reluctantly let him go.

 

Sherlock's eyes opened and regarded him with a strange look that John wasn't quite able to parse.

 

Sherlock's fingers also released his softening member and rubbed over his stomach.

 

"John... that was..." Sherlock interrupted himself and looked down. "Oh. Ejaculate."

 

John took a deep breath and rolled his eyes.

"Yes, that's..."

 

But Sherlock wasn't paying attention to him anymore. Instead, he lifted his fingers, sniffed, and licked at them.

 

The dark pulsing in John's body was back, unfortunately concentrated in his lower belly. "What... are you doing?" he asked hoarsely.

 

"Bitter," Sherlock noted, his expression reflecting only a bit of disgust. The rest was pure, innocent curiosity. "Does ejaculate always taste like that?"

 

"How should I know?" John exclaimed, his nerves now completely raw. He got up, only now becoming aware of the uncomfortable tightness in his trousers. That only annoyed him more, and he stomped angrily to the cupboard where they kept the whisky.

 

"John, since you're already up... can you hand me a test tube with a stopper before everything dries?"

 

John had just reached for a glass and the bottle of Laphroaig, but Sherlock's question caused him to reconsider. He took the entire bottle and put the glass back on the shelve.

 

"Get it yourself," he growled, shoving the bottle under his arm. "I'm going to bed."

 

He hoped that the medicinal-earthy taste of the Islay whisky would delete any memory of the evening, or at least make it more bearable.

 

_**(to be continued...)** _


	6. the taste of "the nile"

Never Change a Running System

 

Part 6

 

"Mmmhhh... oh yes... John! Aaah... don't stop! John – please go on... I ... I ... oh God!"

 

"I've got you, Sherlock...Oh, I love it when you beg..."

 

_Beep-beep-beep-beep!_

 

With a sudden jerk, John was ripped out of a deep sleep. He looked around, momentarily disorientated, until his eye fell on the alarm clock on the bedside table. He automatically pressed the _Off_ button. The digital display showed 10:01 am.

 

Why was the bloody thing going off anyway? It was Sunday. Oh, right... he'd agreed on Friday to cover for someone for a couple of hours over lunch on Sunday.

 

He let himself fall back on the pillow like a felled tree and blinked rapidly a few times to drive the last wisps of fog out of his head. And why did he have a hangover?

 

Oh, yeah... the whisky. He shouldn't have taken more than two shots. He snuck a glance over at the bottle on the window sill and groaned. How full had the bottle actually been when he took it from the living room? It didn't matter either way. He'd have to buy a new one. The meagre dregs in the bottom of the bottle were hardly worth mentioning.

 

Sherlock would...

 

 _Sherlock_.

 

Sherlock!

 

John's eyes flew open in panic.

 

The memory of everything that had happened hit him like a ton of bricks. He squeezed his eyes closed again with a tortured groan.

 

Why?

 

 _Why_?

 

Why the hell had he done that?

 

Oh, right – the pleading expression on Sherlock's face. After his failed date, that had been the last straw for him.

 

What nonsense had he actually been dreaming just now when the alarm clock went off? As the memory of the dream also came back – at least parts of it, as it is with dreams – his face turned red with shame.

 

He furtively lifted the blanket and snuck a look down at his body.

 

He'd thought he'd outgrown nocturnal emissions, but the state of his pyjamas disabused him quite thoroughly of that notion.

 

"Fuck you, Sherlock Holmes! Fuck, fuck, fuck!" John cursed with great feeling.

 

What had happened to him last night? Why had that whole situation affected him as it had?

 

John clapped his hands over his face and took deep breaths in and out.

 

What was going on? Had he turned gay? Had all of that really turned him on?

 

He removed his hands from his face and stared up at the ceiling. He should know, based on many years of experience, how he felt and what it felt like when he was aroused. And that hadn't been what last night had felt like. At least not completely.

 

In his entire life, there had never been a man who had caused him to have any sort of reaction. Even in the army, when God knew he'd come into contact with more than enough men, none of them had ever interested him.

 

No. His sexual orientation was solid. He was straight and that was that.

 

It was probably just some odd kind of physical reaction to the unusual – and completely abnormal – situation.

 

Looked at objectively, Sherlock was a fairly attractive man, quite out of the ordinary (or should he go so far as to say _extraordinary_?), and attractive people – whether male or female – instigated pleasant feelings in other people.

 

What about the dream? The night-time arousal? John let it go with a shrug. Dreams... He tried to scoff about it. He'd never put much stock in dreams. Those crazy things his brain had come up with were probably simply the result of frustration, too much alcohol, and the heretofore unfulfilled desire to become more intimate with Caroline and discover whether she was a natural blonde.

 

After all of these very comforting considerations, he got up, filled with renewed vigour, and padded over to his wardrobe. He should probably call Caroline right after he got off duty this afternoon. After talking to her, she was sure to...

 

His hand paused in the middle of picking out a shirt. Talking.

 

He was going to have to talk to Sherlock. About last night.

 

Did he really have to?

 

Yes. No. Would Sherlock...

 

John shook his head reluctantly. They were both adults. Of course they would have to talk about it, and they would do so as civilised people. He didn't want Sherlock to think that he – John – would be available in future for additional, similar friendly favours.

 

Sherlock was such a child sometimes. If you gave him a hand, it shouldn't come as a surprise to find he'd taken your entire arm.

 

Having reached that conclusion, John completely missed the contradiction of calling Sherlock an adult and a child at the same time.

 

John nodded vigorously and selected a light blue shirt. He was going to talk to Sherlock. Absolutely. The best time would be before he went to work, and before Sherlock had time to think of words like _'precedent'_ and _'customary right_ ', and apply them to what had gone on yesterday.

 

John wouldn't put it past him at all. His flatmate was certainly eccentric enough.

 

But... what if Sherlock wasn't even up yet? John got a fuzzy feeling in his stomach. He didn't want to put this off. He wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible. He hurried to wash, get dressed, and brush his teeth, and then went down to the kitchen to make certain.

 

He shoved aside all thoughts of what he would do if Sherlock were still in his bedroom, and the curious tingling sensation that subsequently ran through him.

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

John's fears were ungrounded, as Sherlock was already seated at the partially set table, reading a particularly questionable yellow-press-tabloid.

 

The detective was already fully dressed and looked as if he'd just stepped out of a fashion magazine. John – despite the fact that he'd taken care getting dressed and felt quite natty just five minutes ago – now found himself rather shabby in comparison.

 

Toast crumbs and a dirty knife testified to the fact that Sherlock had already finished eating.

 

"Good morning, John," Sherlock greeted him without looking up from his paper.

 

"Good morning," John repeated back to him. "Is the tea still warm?"

 

"Yes, but the milk carton's empty. There's a fresh one in the fridge."

 

"Oh, right. Good. Erm." John ran a hand through his hair. Christ, how was he supposed to bring the topic up?

 

In order to gain himself some time, he went to the refrigerator to get the milk. He opened the door, grabbed the milk, and closed the door again. He had already turned his back to the refrigerator when he stopped, opened and closed his mouth, turned back around, and opened the door again.

 

The second inspection confirmed the fleeting impression he'd had at first glance. He slowly turned back to Sherlock.

 

"How long have there been two test tubes in there? Did you-" John cut himself off abruptly. How was he supposed to ask that? He shook his head uncertainly.

 

"How..." He stopped again. No. That wouldn't work. On the other hand, was it any of his business how Sherlock had gotten a second sperm sample? Although he was practically dying of curiosity, and he felt that, following the events of the previous night, he had a certain right to an answer. It was also his refrigerator, after all. But he could hardly come right out and ask, _'Sherlock, did you rub another one out last night?_ ' No. He couldn't.

 

He finally settled on, "Is that also from last night?" and breathed a sigh of relief that he'd found a neutral way of putting it.

 

Sherlock casually turned the page.

"No, from this morning," he explained calmly, still hidden for the most part by the paper. "I decided to start a new experiment."

 

"Aha," John said dully, sat down at the table and poured tea and milk into his cup. He had to consider that response. It actually dealt him exactly the cards he needed, as he had wanted to discuss this very topic, but for some reason he was facing a mental block. "Right..." he said finally and cleared his throat. "Right, okay... So there aren't any problems with it anymore?"

 

Sherlock deigned to flip one corner of the paper down and peer at John over the free edge.

 

"Don't worry," he said nonchalantly. "You won't be incommodated by the sight of my erection any further in the near future." The newspaper corner flipped up again, hiding Sherlock's face from John's nonplussed gaze.

 

"Incommo..." John repeated, puzzled. He knew what the word meant, but Sherlock had surprised him with his directness. "Right, that's good. Although I was just getting used to it," he teased. He couldn't help saying it, despite everything.

 

The newspaper sank. Sherlock observed John intensively.

"Trying to be funny, John?" he drawled.

 

John briefly raised his eyebrows.

"Guess not," he conceded.

 

"Not really," Sherlock agreed, suppressing a yawn. At least the newspaper now hovered at half-mast, and even though Sherlock had returned his attention to the articles and lowered his gaze, this seemed to John to be the ideal moment to present his case.

 

"Erm, Sherlock... about last night..."

 

Sherlock's face lifted toward him once more, displaying – to John's amazement – a small degree of contrition.

 

"Oh, yes... John, I really have to thank you for that. You were a great help."

 

John was ashamed to admit that Sherlock's guileless expression caused his logic and speech centres to shut down completely.

 

Sherlock watched him for a while, waiting, then said in a chiding tone, "Really, John, now it's your turn to say something like _'you're welcome'_."

 

" _You're_ trying to lecture _me_ on social niceties?!" John blurted out, laughing bitterly.

 

Sherlock's face remained completely expressionless.

"Someone has to," he replied dryly.

 

"Sherlock..." John relented and ran a hand through his hair again. "Sherlock, it's not that I wasn't happy to do it... but I don't want you to think I was gagging for it."

 

Sherlock cocked his head to one side and studied John hard.

"You're uncomfortable," he determined. "Why?"

 

John made a helpless gesture. He couldn't for the life of him think of a single explanation. How was he supposed to make a man like Sherlock Holmes understand such a delicate topic? A man who didn't understand most of society's conventions, and thumbed his nose at those he _did_ know.

 

Sherlock's eyes wandered restlessly over John. At some point, he seemed to suddenly discover something that made sense to him, and his expression cleared a bit. He laid the newspaper aside, clasped his hands together and rested his chin on them.

 

"John – with your help, I was able to solve a problem last night that had plagued me for weeks. I am truly, deeply grateful to you for that," he said with quiet certitude.

 

John returned his calm, direct gaze and felt himself calming down as well. Sherlock viewed the entire thing as a problem... as a _case_. An investigation, whose solution John had contributed to. Even if his help had consisted solely of sitting there and protecting Sherlock from himself... And now the case was closed... it wouldn't be necessary to re-open it. Sherlock wouldn't need John's help with it any more.

 

John exhaled with some degree of relief once he understood how Sherlock saw it. Everything had gone in exactly the direction that John had wanted. Sherlock was going to be all right on his own from now on. Sherlock didn't need him anymore. Full stop.

 

While John was thinking about how easily the problem had been solved for him, and why he wasn't happier about it, another unwelcome thought occurred to him.

 

"Sherlock... you're not going to say anything about it, are you?" he asked carefully. "I mean, you're not going to tell everyone, are you?"

 

"What?" Sherlock asked absently. He was buried in the paper again. "What shouldn't I tell everyone about?"

 

A light sweat oozed out of John's pores. Was all this awkwardness never going to end?

"Yeah, you know... last night... You're not going to tell anyone, are you?"

 

A perplexed look was sent John's way.

"Why should I?"

 

"Maybe because nothing embarrasses you? Because you talk nonstop without thinking? Because you blab all kinds of personal information with no filter? Mine, clients', Anderson's... the list goes on forever. And because you don't care about the consequences – maybe because of all that?" John responded emphatically.

 

"Oh," Sherlock said, appearing honestly concerned for a moment. "So you're embarrassed by what happened last night."

 

"In a certain way," John admitted.

 

"I'm not supposed to understand that, am I? That's just some custom that escapes my otherwise brilliant mind," Sherlock retorted dryly and with a hint of contempt. "But if it helps... my lips are sealed. Although I honestly don't understand why it's embarrassing..."

 

"Just leave it," John broke in quickly. "You don't talk about it, and I won't talk about it, all right? Not even any allusions or anything like that."

 

Sherlock shrugged and picked up the paper again.

 

"Erm, Sherlock, just one more thing..." John began hesitantly.

 

Sherlock folded the newspaper with an unnecessarily loud rustling. "What is it now?!" he demanded, visibly irritated.

 

"I just wonder whether your brother... if he might find out somehow what... happened... last night," John said, feeling utterly ridiculous as he did. Was he really worried about something like that?

 

Yes; yes, he was, he decided a moment later. He didn't want Mycroft to find out about it. There was a very real possibility that Mycroft wouldn't be satisfied with the bare facts. He would want to know absolutely everything, and he would find a way to gain that knowledge. Down to the last detail. Struck with a sudden fit of nerves, John clinked the spoon loudly against the sides of his cup as he stirred his tea.

 

Of course, nothing escaped Sherlock's alert eyes.

"As I do not speak to Mycroft – unless absolutely necessary – he will never find out," he declared somewhat snootily.

 

John had to object to that.

"Mycroft has the unsettling habit of finding out everything. Especially things that are none of his business."

 

Sherlock tilted his head to one side in acknowledgment. At the same time, however, he shrugged his shoulders carelessly.

"Correct in principle. But it's irrelevant what Mycroft thinks or says about it."

 

"But what if it gets out somehow?" John insisted. "If you _do_ let something drop? Or if Mycroft makes one of his supposedly subtle remarks? To Lestrade, for example? I don't even want to think about it. They'll talk at Scotland Yard... they'll talk about us. They already do, for Christ's sake!"

 

Sherlock exhaled audibly and then said in a tone that betrayed how weary he was of the topic, "John, I have told you several times now, and I will tell you once more: people _always_ talk! They rarely do anything else – and no one will ever be able to stop them."

 

"Great," John said, and shoved his tea cup away. He'd completely lost his appetite. So all the gossip was going to start up again. The suspicions. The cheap tittering behind their backs. The questioning looks. The knowing grins. Fan-fucking-tastic.

 

"Problem?"

 

"No – no," John said sarcastically. "Not at all."

 

"Good. I have a few questions for you regarding my new experiment." Sherlock mood had lifted so suddenly that John automatically became suspicious.

 

"Do I even want to know what it's about?" he asked, in a tone meant to discourage Sherlock from continuing.

 

But Sherlock was not to be deterred.

"Probably not," he admitted, but continued without even pausing, "I want to find out to what degree the taste of ejaculate can be influenced. I discovered that this morning's sample was still bitter, but contained quite varied nuances." Driven by enthusiasm and curiosity, he had leaned far across the table and was now disturbingly close to John.

 

John's mind conjured up an image from the previous night, and something stirred once again inside him. He swallowed hard and reminded himself that Sherlock wasn't doing any of this on purpose. From his point of view, he had asked a completely reasonable question.

 

"It's possible to influence the taste. But you can read all about it on the internet," John answered as evasively as possible, having decided to play along. That would be faster than arguing about it first, and ending up answering anyway. And that was all he wanted. Not just because he wanted to put the whole thing behind him as soon as possible, but because he had to get to work soon.

 

"Time-consuming and tiresome," Sherlock said, dismissing the suggestion. "I would have to wade through piles of misinformation and half-truths first. You're a doctor, you're here – it's more efficient for me to make use of your knowledge."

 

"You do realise this isn't my specialty, don't you?" John protested. "Just because I'm a doctor doesn't mean I know everything..."

 

"But you know this! Or you'll at least be able to give me some points to start with." A hard glint shone in Sherlock's eyes. John sighed. He knew when he was beaten.

 

"I don't really know any details... but pineapple has a positive effect on the taste, while cabbage and coffee make it more bitter."

 

Sherlock took this information on board with a greedy look.

"Interesting," he said, leaning back in his chair. "I'm going to need several runs." He appeared to be calculating something in his head. "I'll need further samples, of course. John, would you..."

 

"NO!" John yelled, jumping up from his chair. "Sherlock, NO!" He felt himself shaking with rage and with something else that he couldn't identify at the moment.

 

"But..."

 

John didn't let him finish.

"Sherlock, it's a very bad idea to take another man's sperm and... You do know that there are certain diseases?"

 

Sherlock regarded him with a look that was a mix of insulted pride and puzzlement.

"Really, John... of course I know that. But you're a doctor – do I really have to keep harping on that? - you have yourself tested regularly, so there's as good as no risk."

 

John pulled at his hair in the face of so much ... what? Ignorance? Carelessness? Logic?

 

"I get it!" John cried, pounding with both fists on the table and making the tea cups clatter. "I'm clean and therefore the only logical choice to be your guinea pig. I'm still not going to do it! And I forbid you from asking anyone else to do it! Is that clear? Have you understood?!"

 

At least Sherlock appeared to be mildly impressed. He must have actually been listening for once.

"As if I would have done that," he defended himself indignantly.

 

"Oh yes – you would have!" John exclaimed in exasperation.

 

Sherlock smoothed the newspaper out, and John realised that he had just become witness for the first time to a sign of embarrassment on Sherlock's part. But then his friend seemed to come to a decision.

 

"Fine," he said in a bored tone. "Then I'll just have to make do with my own resources." His expression was as unmoved as if he'd never attempted to get John to join in on his project.

 

"Nice for you," John blurted out sarcastically. He was still upset. "I hope you have lots of fun."

 

Sherlock's face brightened immediately, and he smiled broadly.

"I will. You know, I admit I didn't believe you when you told me what an indescribable feeling it was. But you were right. It's really quite special. It will be a very pleasant side effect of my experiment." He beamed up at John, who was still standing in front of him.

 

John swallowed heavily. This was too much for him. All of a sudden, he became aware that his hands were balled into fists. He loosened his fingers deliberately.

"I have an idea for another experiment," he then said.

 

"What is it?" Sherlock asked with interest.

 

"How long does it take Sherlock Holmes to talk John Watson into losing his mind?"

 

A confused look directed itself at John from those pale grey eyes.

 

"And I'll give you a hint," John went on, infuriated. "It won't take much longer."

 

"John..."

 

"No, Sherlock," John deflected him with a pointed gesture that also betrayed his weariness and exhaustion. "It's fine. I have to go to work." And with those words, he turned around and left.

 

**_(to be continued…)_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from now on... updates each THURSDAY.


	7. bananas, pineapples and dildos

Never Change a Running System

 

Part 7

 

When John got back from his shift, he was overcome by mixed feelings on the way up the stairs. At the clinic, he'd been able to forget – or suppress - his situation for a while.

 

But now he was swamped by all the emotions from the past few days, and he wasn't certain how he viewed it all anymore; even his self-image had been called into question, and before this whole thing had happened, that had been one thing he'd felt would never change.

 

There were very few events in his life that had changed him at a fundamental level. There was school, of course ... then his decision to study medicine, and then... John swallowed hard.

 

Afghanistan.

 

Naturally, that experience had had some of the most far-reaching consequences for him. Consequences that had made him to what he was today. He had thought his developmental process was complete. He'd thought there was nothing left that could shake him down to the very core of his being. But then... then Sherlock had come into his life.

 

John had to shake his head at that. What a way to put it!

 

Sherlock hadn't simply shown up one day. Stamford had set them up. Set them up?

 

John groaned.

 

Stamford had introduced them to each other, and John had actually been stupid enough to agree to share a flat with Sherlock.

 

Was he really the adrenaline addict Sherlock had pegged him as when they first met? Was he really wired in such a simplistic way that the first glimpse of a _'Danger'_ sign was enough to send John Watson hurtling off in precisely that direction?

 

He couldn't say he hadn't been warned. Almost everyone he'd met had warned him off from the _'freak'_. John shook his head again. This time angry and unable to understand that someone could think that.

 

Sherlock wasn't a freak. He also wasn't a sociopath, as he liked to call himself; not even a high-functioning one. He was capable of too much empathy for that. Anyone who had eyes in their head could see how he doted on Mrs Hudson. And even he himself had been proud to be called Sherlock's friend. His only one, but still.

 

Even though said friendship didn't stop him from continuing to experiment on John whenever he felt like it.

 

But... wasn't he more than a friend already? And if so... what the hell was he to Sherlock? And if he really was more... did he want to _know_? Did he even _want_ to be more?

 

Before he was able to come to a conclusion, the stairs ended and he found himself standing in front of the door to their flat. He frowned, looking at the door knob. Then he took a deep breath – irritated at himself and his hesitation – and opened the door.

 

"Sherlock?" he called out. "I'm back. Should we..."

 

_Beep._

 

A text message. John took his mobile out of the inside pocket of his jacket, already suspecting who it was from.

 

_Supermarket. Tropical fruit section. Immediate presence required. SH_

 

"Great," John muttered. He turned on his heel and ran back down the stairs. While he was waiting for a taxi, he typed out his usual response. He could have done it blindfolded by now.

 

_On my way. JW_

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

Four days later, that mystery had been solved as well, and John was feeling much more relaxed. Especially as Sherlock's behaviour during the entire time had been as incorrigible and, at the same time, casually friendly as ever. No indication that anything had happened between the two of them.

 

The only fly in the ointment for John was the slightly unusual way in which they had observed some of the suspects. That was also the reason why he had been putting off posting the case on his blog for several days, since he wasn't sure if he should mention it, and if not, how he should describe the way they caught the perpetrator.

 

It was now Sunday again, and John decided he couldn't put off writing up the post any longer. Sherlock had disappeared into his room, so John had the living room to himself, affording him sufficient peace and quiet to write. He had been typing away for a while when he suddenly felt someone breathing down his neck.

 

Startled half to death, he jerked around in his chair, only to find Sherlock bent over him so close that his dark curls were almost brushing John's cheek.

 

"Sherlock!" he screeched, furious and in shock. "What the hell are you doing?"

 

"Seeing what my blogger's up to," Sherlock answered. " _The Mandarin Accord_?" he then cried, pulling a face. "John... come on, really. _The Mandarin Accord_. You couldn't have thought of something more inane?"

 

"I don't know what your problem is," John retorted, slightly hurt. "It was about tropical fruits, trade agreements, and price-fixing. I think it's an appropriate title."

 

"You also think those stupid animal videos on YouTube are an appropriate way to spend your time," Sherlock noted disdainfully.

 

"And you're fascinated by tobacco ash. Is that any better?"

 

Sherlock favoured him with a look that clearly said _'you're an idiot'_.

"It's worthwhile and can be applied to my work. Which you certainly cannot say about animal videos," he replied in a tone of voice that brooked no discussion.

 

"Do you always have to sneak around the flat like that? I nearly had a heart attack," John quickly changed the topic, going on the attack.

 

"For a soldier, your reflexes and hearing are pathetic," Sherlock determined, straightening up to his full height.

 

John felt vaguely as if he'd lost something. It was probably just a reaction to the sudden absence of body heat, he thought to himself. It was rather chilly in the room.

 

"Didn't it say something about snow in the paper?" John asked, returning to type some more on his report. "It'll be Christmas in a couple of weeks."

 

"Snow in London?" Sherlock picked up his violin and bow. "Don't be ridiculous, John."

 

"It's snowed before," John pointed out.

 

"Don't waste your time thinking about meteorology. The weather isn't something we can have an influence on, and therefore it's boring. You'd do better to think about your newest blog entry." Sherlock settled his violin under his chin, but the hand holding the bow still hung down limply.

 

John stopped typing and turned around in his chair in order to see Sherlock better.

"Since when have you been interested in my blog?" he asked suspiciously.

 

Sherlock smiled as sweetly as a cat that was about to eat a canary.

"Since I've been burning with curiosity to find out how you made out as a banana. By the way, I have some photos on my phone, if you wanted to spruce up the post?"

 

John gasped.

"There are pictures?!" he cried, both furious and horrified.  "You took pictures of me passing out flyers in that ridiculous banana costume? YOU?!"

 

Sherlock just grinned and ran the bow tentatively over the strings.

 

"It was your idea," John screeched, upset. "You said it was absolutely necessary to get the final proof to convict the culprit, and ..." John stopped in the middle of his sentence. His mind was racing. "You did that on purpose!" he roared as the truth hit him. "You knew from the start who could have done it, and you could have proven it without me posing as a banana!"

 

"Yes," Sherlock admitted easily. "I could have. But it would have taken half a day longer and wouldn't have been nearly as amusing."

 

While John grasped for words to adequately express his anger and outrage, Sherlock laid his fingers across the strings of his violin and began to play.

 

It only took a few bars for John to recognise the 1920s hit.

 

_Yes, we have no bananas..._

 

John hovered between indignation and laughter. When he saw the waggish glint in Sherlock's eyes, laughter won out.

"You're going to delete those photos," he demanded between peals of laughter.

 

With an elegant motion, Sherlock set his violin down.

"You'll have to force me. And I've no idea how you might do so," he said in his usual posh manner, which lost much of its impact due to his smile.

 

John wiped his eyes, drained from laughing. Then he rested his chin on his hand and regarded Sherlock with affectionate sternness.

"If anything gets out, I'll have to kill you. I hope you realise that," he threatened, half serious, half joking.

 

Sherlock's smiled deepened.

"Once again, I wonder how you think you're going to manage that. But you don't have to worry. Your secrets are safe with me." Sherlock paused. His smile diminished, becoming darker, almost seductive. "All of your secrets."

 

Once more, that hidden chord somewhere deep in John's body was struck and began to vibrate. But then Sherlock turned away from him to turn on the television, and the moment was gone.

 

For just a split second, the sensation echoed inside him, but then it ended too, his pulse recovered its regular steady rhythm, and John finished his report on the " _Mandarin Accord_ ", whereby he described the stakeout but neglected any mention of his disguise as a banana.

 

There were certain things the world was simply not ready for.

 

OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

In the days following, life at 221B Baker Street resumed its regular course. John worked at the clinic during the day, and Sherlock more or less whiled away his time with his website, his clients, and inquiries from Scotland Yard.

 

There was only one thing that had changed, so subtle and yet so immense that John wondered how long he had been ignorant of it.

 

Sherlock wasn't bored any more. Or at least he wasn't complaining about it, and the smiley face on the wall had remained spared from any further attacks.

 

As soon as John connected the lack of boredom with the observation that Sherlock had been spending more time in his room lately, his face turned a flaming red. That wouldn't even have been so bad if the realisation hadn't come to him exactly at the moment when he was at work examining a half-naked woman, which led her to remark, "Hey, doc, not feelin' well?" And when she left, it was with the parting shot: "If I wanted to get felt up by a pervert, I could just take the tube."

 

And so it had to happen that exactly that evening, when John came home from work, Sherlock was lying on the couch, dead to the world.

 

"What's the matter now?" John asked – hovering between annoyed and worried. "Are you ill? Why are you lying around in your dressing gown?"

 

"I'm fine," Sherlock snapped.

 

"Do you have three patches on your arm again, or why is it dragging on the floor like that?"

 

Sherlock merely wrinkled his nose slightly, favouring John with neither a look nor an answer. John shrugged and went into the kitchen.

 

His eye fell first on the counter, where four empty tins of pineapple were lined up.

 

"What the..." John murmured to himself, bewildered, before opening the refrigerator. "Did you leave anything to eat?" he called into the living room. "I'm hungry." When no response was forthcoming, he inspected the contents of the refrigerator. "No way..." he breathed out when he saw the five stoppered test tubes in their stand.

 

He made a beeline for the living room.

 

"Why are there suddenly five test tubes in the fridge?" he demanded of Sherlock, who only blinked up at him dully. "They weren't there yesterday... Wait – is this one of those things I don't want to know?"

 

Sherlock closed his eyes again.

"Definitely," he murmured, exhausted.

 

John ran his hand down his face. "Do the five test tubes have anything to do with the fact that you're lying on the couch in your dressing gown, your skin looks sweaty, your face looks feverish, and you generally look as if you're going to slip into unconsciousness any moment?" he asked severely.

 

Sherlock mustered enough energy to open his eyes.

"New experiment..." he answered sluggishly. "I want to find out how long it takes before the taste changes significantly. Measured in time units from the ingestion of the food... meaning that every two hours, I have to..."

 

For the second time that day, John felt the tell-tale heat in his cheeks.

"Too much information," he said to ward off any further details. But there was one thing he did want to know. "Is that what the empty pineapple tins are about?"

 

"I don't even especially like pineapple," Sherlock answered with a sympathy-seeking look. "But science demands sacrifices."

 

John struggled for control.

 

"Science!" To himself, he added, _'My arse_!' "Is that supposed to mean you've been lying around on the couch all day, eating pineapple and wanking every two hours?" John took a deep breath to calm himself. "I really don't know if I should be disgusted or if I should admire your stamina."

 

Sherlock's eyebrows drew together. John knew that he meant to look contemptuous, but he was failing miserably.

"I didn't _'wank'_ ," he stated for the record. "I was working on an experiment. And it requires two more ..."

 

John interrupted with a sharp hand motion.

"Forget it! You've done enough _work_ for today," he said decisively. "You stay right where you are. I'm going to cook something, and after dinner you're going to shower and put on some decent clothes. Got it?"

 

Sherlock made a half-hearted attempt at a salute.

"Yes, sir," he said, mocking the acknowledgment of an order. "But bring me the Germolene cream from the bathroom first."

 

"I hate you," John groaned.

 

"No, you don't," Sherlock replied. "Now how about that food and the ointment?"

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

Three days and the return of a stolen ring later, the doorbell rang.

 

Sherlock and John were sitting in front of the television in a rare moment of harmony, watching _Murder on the Orient Express_. Sherlock yawned, obviously bored, but it was just as obvious that he was too lazy to get up from his chair, which was the reason why John had wisely snagged the remote control.

 

Just as Sherlock was denigrating one of Poirot's observations as feeble-minded for what seemed like the thousandth time, the doorbell – as previously mentioned – rang.

 

"Expecting a client?" John asked.

 

"No, that's a delivery," Sherlock corrected him wearily. "Really, John – can't you tell the difference? The ring is completely different."

 

"All right," John waved him off. "Expecting a delivery?"

 

"No," Sherlock responded curtly, crossed his arms over his chest and pulled his legs up onto his chair.

 

 _"Me either,"_ John was about to say, but his friend's body language was clear: he wasn't about to deign to get up. There was nothing left for John to do but answer the door.

 

It was, in fact, a delivery.

 

"Yes?" John asked.

 

The package in the messenger's hand was slightly bigger than a shoe carton. There was no return address or company stamp visible. The box was a neutral grey colour.

 

"Delivery for Mr Sherlock Holmes," the man said.

 

"So he _was_ expecting something," John muttered peevishly. He turned halfway round and called, "Sherlock! For you!" Turning back to the messenger, he said, "Just a sec. He'll be right down."

 

The messenger – early 30s, red hair, slight paunch – smiled neutrally.

 

Sherlock finally appeared, yawning.

"I'm not expecting any-" His suddenly alert eye examined the package. "Oh! Fantastic!" he exclaimed happily. "I didn't think it would come so quickly." He all but tore the packet out of the messenger's hand.

 

"What is it?" John asked, mildly curious.

 

"The dildo and vibrator set I ordered through the internet," Sherlock replied incidentally, disappearing with the package back up to the flat.

 

John remained rooted to the spot.

 

Time seemed to stand still.

 

Never in his life had John wished more fervently that the ground would open up and swallow him.

 

When that failed to happen, he said a quick prayer that lightning would strike him on the spot, sparing him from the mortifying situation in favour of an early and gruesome death. But, as usual, his prayer wasn't answered. As usual, he was left to fend for himself.

 

"Er... Sherlock?" John called weakly after his flatmate as soon as he trusted himself to speak.

 

The messenger cleared his throat.

"You can sign for it, sir," he said, and held out the clipboard with the receipt and a pen.

 

"Sorry, what?" John said, uncomprehending. "Oh... right," he then added once his brain started working again.

 

"Vibrator, hm?" the messenger remarked. "I guess you're out of the picture for a while. I know all about it."

 

John grasped the pen without even thinking about it.

"Oh, yeah?" he asked absently. "Er... I mean... we're not..." John sighed. It was hardly worth trying to correct him. "Doesn't matter," he capitulated. "Where do I sign?"

 

"Right here, Sir." The messenger pointed to the spot. "Like I said, I know how it is. You have my deepest sympathy. Ever since my wife bought one of those battery-operated doo-dahs, she's not interested in me anymore."

 

"Erm, right… that's regrettable. Is that all?" John asked.

 

"Yes, Sir. I..."

 

"Great. Good-bye then," John said bluntly and closed the door in his face.

 

"SHERLOCK!" he roared. "Where are you?! We HAVE to talk!" John stood in the hall, his temper boiling over, waiting for a response.

 

"Not now... I'm busy," came the muffled reply from Sherlock's room.

 

"Can't that... THAT CAN WAIT FIVE MINUTES!" John yelled, stomping to Sherlock's room.

 

"But you're going to ruin the mood in those five minutes." The answer was a bit louder, followed immediately by Sherlock opening his bedroom-door a crack and peering out, pouting.

 

"I don't really give a fuck," John raged. "Have you actually lost your mind? What were you thinking, announcing to the messenger – THE MESSENGER – what was in that package?!"

 

Sherlock looked him over, his forehead slightly wrinkled. He appeared altogether clueless.

"You asked," he finally said with a shrug. "And if you keep shouting like that, it won't just be the messenger – who doesn't even know us – who's been informed, but the entire house." He considered for a moment. "Including Mrs Hudson," he then added.

 

"I asked," John echoed tonelessly. "Yes, you're right. I asked." He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger, feeling the first signs of a migraine for the first time in his life. "IN CASES LIKE THAT, YOU LIE!" he then roared so loud that Sherlock stumbled back a step, which John noted with grim satisfaction.

 

But then Sherlock pressed his palms together and held them in front of his face in his typical thinking pose.

"This incident has really upset you," he ascertained. "It must be rather important to you. Fine." He put his hands down. "What should I do? And don't suggest I go to one of those dubious sex shops, because I can guarantee you that this is the one thing I will NOT do. I might have been able to several months ago, but thanks to your _'blog'_..." -and here he indicated the quotation marks with the appropriate hand gestures- "I'm as conspicuous around town as a chequered dog and can't set foot out of the house without being recognised."

 

"You're exaggerating," John objected, but Sherlock didn't pay him any mind. Instead, he continued, bombarding John with his words like a rainstorm beating out a staccato rhythm.

 

"I might be wrong – although I'm never wrong – so it must therefore be impossible that you would want me to be seen entering or exiting a sex shop. Which, in turn, requires me to make my purchases more or less anonymously on the internet. Which, again, requires my purchases to be delivered by the Royal Mail or – as in this case – by a private messenger service. So. What, in your opinion, should I do in future?"

 

John felt more and more uncomfortable under the weight of Sherlock's cool, dissecting gaze, and his anger deflated like a soufflé that had been taken out of the oven too soon.

"Buy as many sex toys over the internet as you want," he finally conceded. "That's entirely your business and has nothing to do with me." He took a cleansing breath. "But it is my business when perfect strangers start to pity me because they think my boyfriend is replacing me with a vibrator."

 

Sherlock made a sound that was half laugh, half contemptuous snort.

"As if I would ever do that!" he cried. "John, when will you learn? You are irreplaceable to me."

 

John shook his head, confused. Sherlock so rarely gave him a compliment that he didn't recognise it as one at first. And even after thinking it over, he was still looking for the hidden sarcasm.

 

"Still, Sherlock..." he started weakly, as he realised that Sherlock was well on his way to getting him side-tracked and re-situating the argument on a relatively unimportant side-line. "That's not exactly the point..."

 

"Well spotted!" Sherlock agreed. "The point is, do we still have any batteries? I don't understand why they don't include something so basic with the equipment."

 

At that moment, John decided never again to get upset about anything that Sherlock did or said. Because it was either that, or succumb to an early heart attack. That was as certain as death and taxes. And you didn't need to be a genius of Sherlock Holmes' calibre to recognise it.

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

**_To be continued..._ **

 

I hope I got the thing with the ointment right. Google informed me about a cream called “Germolene”. In Germany we have a product named “Bepanthen” – a salve for burns, smaller cuts and sore spots or excoriation.

 

More information about the song “Yes we have no bananas”:

<http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yes!_We_Have_No_Bananas>

 

music/video:

<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jT6JkceQ9FU>

 


	8. Voyeur

Never Change a Running System

 

Part 8 - **Voyeur**

 

John had actually been successful in his resolution not to get upset about anything concerning Sherlock any more.

 

He had come up with a mantra that he would repeat to himself whenever emotions arose that could be detrimental to his health.

 

_Running amok is not the solution – running amok is not the solution – running amok is not the solution – running amok..._

 

It had worked, at least until now. In fact, he was generally able to see a certain humour in the absurdity of a situation, after four or five repetitions.

 

He was bothered, however, by the faint yet increasing worry that Sherlock was beginning to show signs of addiction. The longer John thought about it, the less surprised he was about it. Sherlock had an addictive personality. He might have stopped smoking – more or less – but he had immediately replaced that vice with the application of nicotine patches in a manner that didn't exactly conform with their intended use.

 

Additionally, there were signs that Sherlock had used other drugs – at least before John had moved in. John suspected that there was still a stash of illegal narcotics hidden somewhere in their flat. He hadn't found it yet, but he was one hundred per cent certain that it existed.

 

Sherlock could also be termed a workaholic. Whenever there was no case on, he became impossible and behaved as if he were going through withdrawal. He had even said that he was basically married to his work. All of which indicated an addiction to said work.

 

John wasn't particularly surprised, therefore, to discover certain patterns of a sex addiction in Sherlock's behaviour.

 

However, John wasn't exactly sure how – or if – he should go about broaching the subject with Sherlock. It might simply be the thrill of the new experience that was causing Sherlock to spend more and more time alone in his room. John decided not to say anything for the time being, but to keep his eyes open.

 

As soon as Sherlock would start to leave his room only for meals, or would go so far as to neglect his work, he'd do something. That was a promise. He only hoped that it never came to that. Because fighting an addiction with logic was usually fruitless. Even if Sherlock was generally quite receptive to logic. John just knew that reasoned arguments would fail in this area.

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

Thanks to his newfound devil-may-care attitude, John was able to keep his face from colouring when Sherlock asked him out of the blue: "What about the prostate?"

 

It was the third Sunday of Advent. There were no new cases on the horizon, and John had settled down in his armchair with a cup of coffee and a book. Sherlock had already been busy with his laptop since breakfast and hadn't said a single word for several hours.

 

As already stated, John's newly discovered internal equilibrium prevented him from either spilling his coffee or choking on it. He even succeeded in seeing the whole thing from a humorous angle, and therefore answered impudently and without looking up from his book, "You get cancer there."

 

John waited a few seconds. There was complete silence. Only when an indignant " _What_?" sounded in his ears did he indulge in a grin. He finally had mercy on his friend and looked up.

 

Sherlock's eyebrows had drawn together with a peevish air, but his face expressed something more akin to confusion than irritation.

 

"Maybe you should be more specific," John suggested in a friendly manner.

 

The confusion disappeared, to be replaced with something like approval mixed with displeasure.

 

"Several sources suggest that the prostate can be a source of sexual stimulation," Sherlock said, and watched John expectantly.

 

John could have given him a concise and direct answer, but he was in a mood to let Sherlock hang for a bit.

 

"Aha," he said simply. "And what do you want from me? It appears you've already informed yourself adequately."

 

Sherlock snorted with impatience.

"John! I want to know if this information is in line with the facts."

 

"Why are you asking me?" John retorted in a manner that suggested the question was the greatest impertinence he'd ever heard. "How should I know? I'm straight."

 

Inside, John was about to burst with laughter over Sherlock's impatience and increasing irritability. On the outside, however, he gave the appearance of being completely unaffected. He pretended to continue to read his book.

 

Sherlock's eyebrows were really quite ominous by now.

"What does that have to do with it?" he huffed.

 

John slowly turned the page.

"Oh, just about everything, I'd say. Or didn't you know that anal penetration and stimulation are practiced mainly by gay men, whereas straight men generally would rather eat a bullet than even think about letting someone get near their arse?"

 

"Straight men appear to be a bunch of idiots when it comes to their sexuality," Sherlock remarked acidly. "Why should one neglect the opportunity to stimulate an additional erogenous zone?"

 

"No idea," John sighed, and closed his book. He'd tortured Sherlock long enough. "What can I say? Men are funny that way."

 

"Funny?" Sherlock snorted. "Incompetent and ignorant would be more accurate terms." He leaned back in his chair. "All right – now that you've stopped wasting my time with your little games and are ready to cooperate... what about the prostate?"

 

John shrugged.

"I'm going to have to repeat what I already said: _why are you asking me?_ I can give you some basic medical information about it, like where it is – but there are some pretty good diagrams on the internet as well – or how to perform a prostate exam. I can even tell you how to get a semen sample without too much trouble during the course of such an exam ... but as none of that has to do with sexual arousal, it will a) not interest you, and b) not really answer your question."

 

"Still..." Sherlock began. "I think it would be helpful if you..."

 

"Oh, no," John said firmly. "Leave me out of it. No way! And you don't need to look at me like that. I'm not helping you with this. It wouldn't do any good anyway, as I have no practical experience with it."

 

John patted himself on the back for having answered so calmly. Of course John would rather have thrown Sherlock out the window and screamed at him – not necessarily in that order - for even posing the question, but experience had taught John that that wouldn't do any good. The only thing that he'd get out of it would be varicose veins in his neck.

 

Sherlock rumpled his forehead in thought.

"You've never..."

 

John shrugged again.

"No. It never really interested me, and it simply never happened." A moment later, John realised that could be misinterpreted, and he rushed to crush any possible impressions he might have given. "Women are generally less interested in a man's arse... that's why ... it never happened... I mean..." John noticed that he was beginning to stammer, which was why he stopped talking altogether before he said something really stupid.

 

"Do you mean to tell me that no offers were ever made to you in the army?" Sherlock had laid his hands alongside each other and was watching John over the tips of his fingers, calculating and somewhat disbelieving.

 

"No." John had to clear his throat. "Why should... what makes you think that?"

 

"By standard societal measures, you would not be considered either ugly or repugnant. And compared to the other soldiers in your unit, you even appear to be rather attractive." His hands moved back to his laptop keyboard and he started typing.

 

"Sherlock... what... where..." John spluttered.

 

"What?" Sherlock asked, looking up from his laptop somewhat absently. "Oh, right... you showed me that group photo a year ago. Based on that, you were definitively in the upper third of the scale of attractiveness. It's strange that no one ever made an advance." Sherlock's voice had degraded to a near murmur by the end of his statement, as his laptop demanded more and more of his attention.

 

"Sherlock..." John said, bemused and slightly embarrassed.

 

"What is it?" Sherlock asked without looking up.

 

"Was that a compliment?" John simply had to know. He was feeling strangely light-headed, since the moment when Sherlock had said he was attractive. He didn't know what to think, or how he should take the pronouncement. But deep down inside, a pleasant feeling spread through him, giving that hidden chord some company. John had no idea why... but it felt like the muffled, gentle, slightly melancholy sound of a bassoon.

 

"What?" Sherlock asked while his fingers all but flew over the keys. "Oh, that... a compliment? I don't know... do you feel flattered? If so, then it must have been one," Sherlock responded, distracted, and returned to his laptop.

 

"Ah," John said. He was too overwhelmed to come up with any more words. "Thanks," he was just able to get out.

 

Sherlock looked up at him then and winked – exactly the way he had at their first meeting.

"No problem."

 

After that, John was of no use to anyone. And while all of Sherlock's concentration was now firmly on his laptop, the hidden chord inside John had turned into a violin and united with the bassoon to their first, tentative duet that ended almost as soon as it began.

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

In the following days, John took all the extra shifts he was offered at the clinic. It was an attempt to distract himself with work, to suppress these disturbing feelings, and not to have to think about the fact that Sherlock found him – measured against societal norms – attractive.

 

Due to all the overtime and irregular working hours from the odd shifts, and since there was only one unspectacular case during the entire time – which Sherlock was able to solve himself, not even sending John any text messages that had him chasing halfway through London – John was able to avoid his friend and flatmate quite handily.

 

John simply didn't want to analyse what that one – probably unintentional – remark had set off in him, or would set off, if he ever started to think about it. And coming into contact with Sherlock would unavoidably end in everything being stirred up again, making him face up to his emotions.

 

As long as he could keep it up a couple more days, John was convinced that all of this confusion would disappear and everything would return to being as quiet and peaceful as it had been before.

 

Quiet and peaceful? John almost had to laugh at that. When had things ever been quiet and peaceful with Sherlock around? On the other hand, was it so terrible that John simply wanted his normal life back? Or at least as normal as it could be as Sherlock's flatmate, friend, and blogger.

 

Although John did everything in his power to stay out of Sherlock's way – at least for the time being, it never occurred to him to find another flat and move out.

 

When he finally realised that - on the third day of his avoidance strategy - he also realised that he was far too deeply entangled in Sherlock's life and machinations to be able to escape easily. And unfortunately, he had to admit to himself that he didn't want to.

 

Having arrived at this conclusion, he went to the personnel office and asked for another night shift.

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

By the end of the week, John had taken so many shifts that he didn't even know what day it was when he came home early one morning.

 

He tried to be quiet entering the flat, in order not to wake Sherlock. But just as he was tiptoeing past Sherlock's door, two things happened.

 

First of all, John noticed that Sherlock's door was open a crack. The second thing was a lascivious moan that reached his ears at that exact moment.

 

Every fibre of John's body urged him to go on, to ignore the crack and the moan, but he was simply not able to carry out the necessary actions.

 

His legs weren't obeying him anymore, since rather than walking away, they remained rooted to the spot. Not even his eyes obeyed his order to look away. Instead, his head turned a little more so that he was no longer looking at the wardrobe, but at the bed.

 

At the sight of the naked body on the bed, John felt himself strangely removed from reality. Time and space became theoretical constructs without meaning.

 

John didn't know how long he stood there, staring through the cracked-open door without blinking. Another moan tore him out of his rigor, and with near nausea-inducing abruptness, he became aware of the fact that the sight was arousing him.

 

He was still unable to tear himself away.

 

Words like elegant, beautiful, powerful, delicate, and sensual ran through his head, yet none of them seemed appropriate for the scene that was spread out before him, almost like a painting.

 

There was a candle burning on the nightstand whose flame bathed the room in a soft, warm light and made Sherlock's pale skin almost glow.

 

Sherlock was kneeling on the bed, his back to the door. He was crouched on his heels, Japanese style, but it was obvious that he wasn't holding his knees together; quite the opposite, he had his thighs spread wide apart.

 

John automatically looked for the typical arm movements of a man who was pleasuring himself, but although Sherlock's hands were obviously in his lap, no movement was visible.

 

Through the white noise in his ears, John only gradually became aware of the quiet buzzing. The blood drained out of his head directly into the core of his body.

 

A vibrator. Sherlock was using a vibrator to... to do what?

 

John licked over his lips, both nervous and aroused. Wild speculations and images shot through his head. Was he pressing it against his balls? Or was he stimulating his cock? Or was he rubbing it back and forth along his inner thigh?

 

A disturbing longing and a lustful, wave-like tension spread through John's body. He bit his lips together in order to suppress the moan that was lodged in his throat.

 

While he was imagining what exactly was happening on Sherlock's front, his gaze wandered hungrily over Sherlock's back, automatically seeking traces of their adventures together. But all the little scars were invisible in the dim light, leaving an impression of unblemished perfection; this bothered John quite a bit. Those little imperfections were so much a part of Sherlock that their absence was disturbing.

 

Another moan – nearly obscene – cut through the silence, and John felt his heart beating not just in his chest, but throughout his entire body.

 

Sherlock moaned again. And again. And again... until the moaning was all but inseparable from his breathing. Every breath he took was a sound that re-ignited the nearly forgotten duet of violin and bassoon with its unsettling sensuality.

 

Every sound that Sherlock made became a seamless part of the swelling melody, which only served to ramp up John's desire further. Without thinking about it, he grasped himself between his legs, shuddering so heavily at his own touch that his other hand shot up to the wall automatically to support him.

 

He closed his eyes for a moment.

 

Control. He had to re-establish control over himself. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't succeed entirely. John couldn't recall the last time he'd been so hard. He forced himself to take deep, slow breaths and withstood the urge to open his trousers and take himself in hand.

 

Only when the churning crescendo inside him had died off a bit did he become aware of the absolute silence. Horrified, he flung his eyes open. Had Sherlock noticed him? Felt his presence? Would he think he was some kind of perverted voyeur, or would he...

 

But Sherlock still had his back to him, and John realised that the strange stillness was due to the lack of buzzing. It was only now that he saw that Sherlock's hands were clasped behind his neck and he was breathing so hard that his entire body was shaking.

 

Sherlock was drawing it out.

 

This insight drove fresh arrows of arousal into John's body, and he bit his lower lip again. How often had Sherlock done that already tonight? Stimulated and aroused himself, come close to climax and then – at the last moment – stopped, waited, extended that feeling of being on the brink, savoured and enjoyed it...

 

John swallowed hard. He had to get away. He had to disappear before Sherlock noticed him. What was he doing here anyway? How could he get off on his friend masturbating? What kind of person was he? How was something like this...

 

A sensual sigh, a catlike stretch of Sherlock’s back and arms... hands stroking over his body, moving lower, ever lower... until they reached their goal. Another sigh... and then... his right arm began to move. Slowly at first, then faster and faster.

 

John forgot that he'd meant to leave. He forgot everything around him. He only knew that he'd never seen anything more erotic in his life, or felt anything comparable to what he was feeling at that moment.

 

The rising crescendo inside him adapted itself to the rhythm of Sherlock's panting, creating one of the most erotic sounds he'd ever heard.

 

Sharp, muffled cries were interspersed between Sherlock's gasps, and John knew that Sherlock – like him – was biting his lip in order to keep himself from screaming out his pleasure. Sherlock's back curved forward at first, then he threw his head back and his throaty gasp made hot and cold shivers run down John's back.

 

A long, drawn-out " _Yessss_ " followed, and Sherlock leaned forward to support himself on the bed with his left hand. In doing so, he raised his backside slightly, offering John – unconsciously – a quite incredible view.

 

A renewed wave of arousal flooded through John when he saw that Sherlock was wearing an anal plug.

 

A helpless moan escaped John's lips, but fortunately it was covered up by Sherlock's lustful panting.

 

John thought once again of fleeing. But his legs were still not obeying him. He remained rooted to the spot, watching with feverish eyes as Sherlock drove himself closer and closer to climax.

 

Only after a shudder ran through Sherlock's body, he threw his head back again, and his muscles unlocked into a gentle twitching; only after he let himself collapse heedlessly forward onto the bed and lay there, completely drained; only then did John's rigor lift, and he fled to his room with a pounding heart and an urgent erection.

 

John didn't know what to think any more. He didn't know what to feel any more. He only knew that he had to forget that scene.

 

But he also knew that he would never be able to, not for the rest of his life.

 

The impellent duet of violin and bassoon echoed long into the remainder of the night.

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

**_To be continued..._ **

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty hot, wasn't it? But the happy ending is still pretty far off... don't worry though, the drama's not going to drag on forever. No worries. There's going to be plenty more humour as well!
> 
> And now a little note about the musical metaphors. I did have something in mind with it!
> 
> John hears a violin at the beginning – of course... Sherlock plays the violin. But then the bassoon joins in... The bassoon comes right at the moment when John's feelings for Sherlock become more serious and deeper and go beyond what's on the surface. A bassoon sounds warm, friendly, comforting. But also a bit doleful... That's supposed to symbolise the intimacy that John and Sherlock share, but also the slight melancholy that nothing will ever come of it.


	9. pub talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a few words considering the ointment mentioned in Chapter 7…
> 
> Some readers thought Germolene was just the right thing. Others suggested E45, Savlon or sudocrem. Others knew Bepanthen… I’m still slightly at a loss here, but I thank you all for the information about cream! Bepanthen (what I had originally in mind) is something we use in Germany after we get a tattoo… to soothe the skin and to accelerate the healing process. What kind of cream do you use in Britain for tattoo aftercare? I’m just curious.

 

Never Change a Running System

** Pub Talk **

 

Part 9

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

As soon as John got to his room, he leaned back heavily against the door. He closed his eyes, plagued by conscience, but that didn't shut out the images in his head, or undo the actions they depicted.

 

Once again, that lustful tension in his groin – so familiar under other circumstances, so foreign now – brought his tortuous arousal back into the forefront of his mind.

 

With hardly a conscious thought, his hands drifted to his flies to free his member from the narrow prison his trousers had become.

 

It was over embarrassingly quickly.

 

He was so overstimulated that two or three quick strokes were enough. His free hand pressed over his mouth to suppress his moan, and in his ecstasy and desperation, he bit down on it hard. The pain brought him back to full consciousness, and when his fuzzy brain finally became aware of what he had just done, his legs refused to bear his weight any longer.

 

He slowly slid down the door until he was crouched on the floor, his knees pulled up, his trousers still half open. He wrapped his arms around his legs, rested his forehead on his knees, and a tortured sob squeezed out of his throat.

 

He was less horrified by the fact that he might not be as straight as he had thought. The problem was that he had acted like a sleazy, perverted Peeping Tom. Christ! He'd jerked off to his friend and flatmate! He was lower than slime.

 

He rubbed his hands over his face in despair. What had gotten into him? Sherlock trusted him. And what did he do? He abused that trust in the most sordid way he could imagine.

 

Although... would Sherlock really despise him? Sherlock's own moral compass didn't exactly point due North. John shook his head emphatically. Sherlock would be disgusted if he told him, he knew that. There was no other possibility. Although... maybe... Sherlock might feel something...

 

John shook his head with a soft, bitter laugh. Had he gone completely round the twist? There was no way Sherlock was in love with him. He was useful to Sherlock, that was all.

 

Why had the door been left open a crack? Had it been an invitation? A coincidence? An oversight? Sherlock's usual laziness?

 

Did Sherlock even fancy men? Or women? Or both?

 

John still didn't know. It was actually pretty shocking how little he knew about Sherlock. Especially when he considered that he himself was an open book to Sherlock, without even wanting to be.

 

Even when John had done that 'favour' for him, it hadn't been clear whether Sherlock had been more turned on by the men or the women in the movies. John had only found out, upon asking, that he hadn't found either of the actors very impressive. That could simply mean that they weren't his type, or...

 

Maybe Sherlock preferred sex toys to people. After all, Sherlock was of the opinion that people in general were stupid and dull.

 

But Sherlock had said he was attractive.... Wait. Sherlock's hadn't said _he_ found him attractive. He'd simply stated a series of facts and a conclusion.

 

John shook his head again. This wasn't helping.

 

What about himself? Was he suddenly gay?

 

He rested his chin thoughtfully on his knee and stared unseeing into the darkness. Most of the men he knew had experimented with other men in some way or another, tried things out, only to end up dedicating themselves exclusively – or at least mainly – to the female population.

 

He never had. He had absolutely no experience with men. He wondered why that was. In his entire life, he'd never had a problem with homosexuals. God, his own sister was a lesbian, and he'd never even given it a second thought. Their parents, on the other hand... it had been hard for them. Harder than her drinking. And it was the drinking that upset John most.

 

Their parents...

 

John paused in his train of thought. Their parents? Had he never sought contact of any kind with other men because he'd wanted to spare his parents any further pain? Had he categorically excluded that possibility from the start? Had he broadcast that so clearly that it had protected him from any suggestive offers, even in the army? Had he exerted an iron will in distancing himself from any such temptations because he knew, deep down inside, that he would fall prey to them? With every fibre of his being?

 

He let his head sink back against the door, drained. Was that it? He stared blindly into the darkness surrounding him.

 

Had he wanted to spare his parents two gay children rather than one at any price? Was that the reason he'd reacted so strongly to Sherlock just now, because he'd never been in a situation like that before – because he'd never allowed it to happen? Because a preference for his own gender was an integral part of his nature? But then why had he never noticed it before? Why had his sexual identity never been shaken before?

 

Hold on! Was he talking himself into being gay here?

 

He liked women. He'd always liked them. He'd had a few relationships and several brief ... well, affairs. And everything had always worked brilliantly in bed. So what was he worried about? Oh, right... the intensity with which he'd reacted to the sight of Sherlock.

 

A quiet 'fuck!' slipped out between his clenched teeth.

 

Maybe it had simply been the lure of the forbidden? Like that time when Susan? - Sandra? whatever – had tried out the handcuffs. What a night that had been!

 

Maybe he wasn't gay, but bisexual? Maybe it had just been way too long since he'd had any sex at all? Maybe he should set up another date with Caroline?

 

John sat on the cold floor for a long time, thinking about everything and nothing and trying both to explain his reaction rationally and to calm himself down. But he wasn't successful on either count.

 

He felt like he didn't even know himself any more. It was a very unpleasant and discomforting thought.

 

When he started to shiver, he stood up reluctantly, his joints protesting, undressed, and went to bed. Once he lay down, he realised just how tired and exhausted he really was. He also noticed that all that soul-searching on the floor hadn't really done any good, as the last question his brain posed before he fell asleep was: "Now what?"

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

The next day, John snuck out of the flat. Luck was on his side, and he was able to get out without seeing either Sherlock or Mrs Hudson. He was definitely not in the mood for any sort of conversation or small talk.

 

He had to get a handle on himself first.

 

He'd signed up for a double shift at the clinic again that day. It would be the last one for a while. The new schedules for the next few days wouldn't be up until tomorrow, and he was off then. The personnel office had insisted, since he'd piled up quite a lot of overtime already.

 

John's first thought was to hope that a case would come up tomorrow – or better yet, today – which would leave him and Sherlock no time to talk. As soon as the thought crossed his mind, though, he kicked himself for being cold and unfeeling. A case always meant that something bad had happened to someone else. How could he wish for something like that? To wish unhappiness on others so that he would be spared an awkward talk? And it wasn't even as if he would be spared – it would simply be postponed.

 

Maybe he would come up with a solution to his problem during the day. At least he hoped so.

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

Hope may spring eternal, but when John's shift ended that day, he still hadn't found a way out of his dilemma.

 

Reluctantly, he set off for home. He decided to walk, although he didn't usually. It would take longer, but that was the intention. However, when a cold, sharp drizzle penetrated both his skin and his mirthless thoughts like icy needles, he regretted the decision.

 

He looked around half-heartedly for a taxi, but before he saw one, his eye lit on a pub across the street.

 

Warm, inviting light filtered out onto the street through the milky windows. The door opened, and a man and a woman stepped out. Music and laughter floated over to John through the open door. The man and the woman looked up, surprised, when they noticed the drizzle. He flipped his collar up, she held her purse over her head, and they ran together, laughing, toward the tube station.

 

The stranger's flipped-up collar reminded John so vividly of Sherlock that it was almost painful. He looked uncertainly over at the entrance to the pub. He longed for warmth and normal, casual company. A beer. Just one beer. It couldn't hurt. Maybe it would give him a brilliant idea.

 

John crossed the street and reached his hand out to the handle on the pub's door – and his fingers brushed the hand of another man who apparently had the same destination in mind and whom John – distracted as he was by his own misery – hadn't noticed before.

 

"Oh, sorry..." John began, but then he recognised the other man. "Greg!" he exclaimed, taken aback.

 

"John," Lestrade countered. "Now this is what I call a turn-up." The Detective Inspector appeared startled but pleased. "Also looking for some peace and quiet?"

 

John was surprised to note that his face automatically drew into a half smile. He wouldn't have thought he was still capable of smiling after the last few hours.

"You could say that," he said.

 

"Good," Lestrade smiled. "I'll get the beer and you find us some seats."

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

Two hours and several beers later, John and Lestrade were still sitting at the small table in the corner that John had snagged.

 

"But I thought it was smooth sailing again between you and your wife?" John asked.

 

Lestrade made a _'pfff'_ sound and took a big sip.

"I thought so too. She swore up and down..." Lestrade paused to hiccup. "Swore... and now... now she's supposedly at some bloody pottery class ev'ry Tuesday. What can I say, John? Can I tell you something? Las' Tuesday I went to pick her up... I was finished earlier than usual at the Yard and wanted to pick her up. I'd already reserved a table at the local Indian she likes so much... an' what can I say?"

 

"She wasn't there?" John guessed.

 

Lestrade was one or two beers ahead and it didn't look like he could hold much, since it was pretty easy to see the influence the alcohol was having on him. He wasn't exactly drunk, but he was fairly buzzed. As for John, he'd discovered that his troubles were actually turning him off the beer. It just didn't taste right. He'd actually only drunk along to be companionable and considered himself to still be more or less sober.

 

Lestrade blinked blearily down into his beer.

"She wasn't there," he confirmed dully. "Jus' her friend. I saw her from a ways off. She's prob'ly making vases for two... 'coz you can bet... I'm going to ask her to show me all the pretty things she's made. I will. And then we'll see."

 

"You mean you haven't confronted her yet?" John asked, astounded. He felt sorry for Lestrade. The DI was a good person and deserved to be happier in his private life. Still, Lestrade's misery had distracted John rather successfully from his own worries. And so John encouraged him to keep talking.

 

Lestrade laughed sadly.

"The worst part is, I love her. Does that make sense to you? 'Coz it doesn't to me. I... I can't live without her... she... she's jus'... fantastic." Lestrade fell into a brood. "What about you an' Sherlock? Trouble in paradise? Why're you here anyway? And don't tell me you're jus' drinking out of sympathy. That'd be a lie... I may not have Sherlock's keen nose... but I can tell when someone's lying to me. There's a reason I'm a Detective Inspector."

 

John was turning red at Lestrade's words, unfortunately. Unbeknownst to him, Lestrade had practically hit the bull's-eye with his off-colour jesting. The need to pour his heart out to someone became overwhelming, winning the battle against the impulse not to be indiscreet.

 

"He's driving me mad," John finally admitted. That was close enough to the truth without giving away any of the mortifying details.

 

Lestrade crowed loudly.

"Too true," he agreed and took another big sip. "I never knew anyone who put up with him for so long."

 

Those words made John's ears prick up. Why hadn't he thought of that earlier? Lestrade and Sherlock had known each other much longer. Maybe Lestrade had some information that could be of use to John.

 

"Greg, you've known him a lot longer than I have... what's Sherlock actually into?" The question was out before John had really thought about how to put it. John could only hope that Lestrade didn't find it odd that he wanted to know such intimate details.

 

"Known?" Lestrade snorted, and John breathed a sigh of relief. There was no look of suspicion or disgust. Lestrade wasn't imagining the worst. "I may've known him longer, but I'll bet you know him better than anyone else on the bloody planet," Lestrade continued in the garrulous manner of a man who's deep in his cups. "And if you wanna know what he's into... I've gotta pass. I've never known him to have anything going on with anyone – or anything." He drained his glass. "He's prob'ly all rusted up down there anyway. Shame if you think about it. He's actually pretty bloody sexy."

 

John coughed and spit the mouthful of beer he'd just been about to swallow back into his glass.

"What?" he managed to gasp. "Greg... you're... married! I mean..."

 

"Straight? Hell yeah," Lestrade agreed cheerfully. "So? Half the blokes're checking out Sherlock's arse behind his back. 'M not stupid. I seen it. But I keep me mouth shut. Married, all of 'em. And straight. Like a die." Lestrade perched his chin on his left hand and stared out into the distance. "Still. Sherlock... there's somethin' about him. He's so... so... dunno." He shrugged.

 

"Androgynous," John blurted out, and immediately regretted it. But Lestrade was so far gone that nothing struck him as out of the ordinary any more.

 

John paused while he considered what being androgynous meant. It actually suited Sherlock perfectly. On the other hand, Sherlock defied any categorisation. To John, androgynous meant something like _'all-inclusive_ '. Sherlock, on the other hand, was a _'neither-nor'_. Yes, that was a more apt description, John decided. Sherlock broadcast something that was both alluring and untouchable, unreachable. Like a vestal virgin. Christ... he was drunker than he'd thought. What utter tripe he was coming up with!

 

"Andro...right," Lestrade echoed him. "Tha's it. He has this charisma. Subshon- subconsious. I don't think he even knows how hot he looks sometimes."

 

"I wouldn't exactly say that. For one thing, he always flips that collar up because he knows perfectly well how ... sexy ... that looks with his cheekbones." Yeah, definitely drunk, John decided. He would never have said 'sexy' in that context otherwise. But he couldn't think of a better word at the moment. Those cheekbones were the most ridiculous and sexiest things he'd ever seen.

 

"Grand," Lestrade grumbled. "Bastard's even doing it on purpose." He chuckled. "He'll manage to turn all me men's heads eventually. 'M not even gonna mention the women."

 

"Fortunately, most of them are turned off by his sunny disposition," John remarked dryly.

 

"Yeah..." Lestrade said thoughtfully. "Tha's the problem with him. He's a great man... but he still i'n't a good one... or've you made any progress there?"

 

"Not really," John admitted. "He still does whatever he wants... with no regard for the consequences."

 

"You have a thing for him too," Lestrade noted with a sly look.

 

John's eyes widened in horror.

"What? No... I mean.. a thing... that's..."

 

"Jesus Christ, you live with him." Lestrade stared into his empty glass. "You'd have to be made of stone not to think about it sometimes. Christ, sometimes I wish I was bent. I'd've given him... I'd've given... Any chance of getting refill here? I'll get some. You want another too?" he asked John, wobbling a bit as he stood.

 

John waved him off, feeling slightly overwhelmed.

"No... I've had enough. And you probably shouldn't have any more either, Greg..." John pointed out.

 

In lieu of an answer, Lestrade tossed him his car keys.

"'S okay. Two more then I'll get a taxi."

 

John watched Lestrade weave his way to the bar, nonplussed and pensive. Maybe his fascination with Sherlock wasn't as abnormal as he'd thought. If even a Detective Inspector from Scotland Yard thought Sherlock was hot... Then everything that had happened, while still not appropriate, might not be an unmitigated disaster. After all, Lestrade was straight too, and even he couldn't escape Sherlock's subliminal magnetism entirely.

 

John felt the first tendrils of calm and composure spread through him. Slowly but surely. Maybe he'd have another beer after all.

 

The decision was made for him when Lestrade slapped two full glasses down onto the table so hard that their contents splashed over the rims.

 

"Sorry," Lestrade mumbled, clumsily taking his seat again. "Howzat? Did you even want another one?"

 

"It's fine," John placated him, pulling one of the glasses toward himself.

 

Both men took a sip.

 

"But y'know," Lestrade said out of the blue, "I don' think Sherlock fancies birds or blokes. Bastard's only in love with himself." Lestrade shook his head sadly. "What a waste."

 

Those words gave John a distinct feeling of relief. Wasn't there some sort of saying? Children and drunks always speak the truth? John regarded Lestrade with round eyes. Had the DI hit the nail on the head? Sherlock only loved himself.

 

It was so wonderfully simple and insightful. Sherlock only loved himself.

 

John didn't know why, but he was so relieved that he wanted to laugh out loud.

 

Sherlock couldn't have had an ulterior motive in leaving the door open, because he was such an egomaniac that he didn't give a flying fuck about anyone else. Sherlock didn't need anyone else. He satisfied his own needs – in all areas of his life. He was generally put off by other people touching him. The open door couldn't possibly have been an invitation.

 

But... hadn't he practically begged John to touch him that one time? Hadn't it been his one condition? And hadn't there been a tiny spark of disappointment in his pale eyes when John had only agreed to guide his hand?

 

Did Sherlock only love himself?

 

What if Lestrade was wrong? Or if Sherlock had left the door open not as an invitation, but as an experiment? Had he wanted to provoke some reaction? Just for its own sake? To analyse it, to catalogue it? Had he played with John's feelings because he was bored? Manipulated them? Boredom... okay, Sherlock would call it science, but in the end everything came down to boredom for him. That or...

 

Sherlock liked to call himself a sociopath, but at in his slightly drunken state John thought Asperger's Syndrome was more probable, given that Sherlock wasn't without empathy, just the ability to express it in ways the rest of the world could recognize.

 

John thought grimly that Sherlock had better have Asperger's, because that would be the only acceptable excuse for his behaviour. If not... then there was no excuse anymore. For anything. In that case, Sherlock would be nothing more than his insufferable self. John sighed. He was confused and he was angry. And perhaps none of his thoughts made sense and he got everything wrong. As usual. But...

 

Sherlock only loved himself. That was true. The question was: what was the reason for such exaggerated egocentrism?

 

Horse's arse? Or something else entirely?

 

John was going to find out.

 

And if the answer was that he was an arse, Sherlock had better get ready to have John's shoe surgically removed from it, because he was going to kick him with all the pent-up frustration of the past few weeks.

 

But first he had to pour Lestrade into a taxi.

 

**_(to be continued…)_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive me... It was never my intention to offend or upset people with Asperger.  
> I used the term as a "nod" to the TV show were it is mentioned in "Baskerville". It was never an issue when I first posted this fanfic in german - and so I haven't gave it a second thought.
> 
> I want to tell you that in this story Sherlock doesn't has Asperger - it is just that John is so upset and confused. He's trying to make sense of Sherlocks's behaviour and (in the context of the original show and this story) Asperger was the first thing that came to his mind. It is not relevant for the rest of the story. It is mentioned in the next chapter, but I will try to change that.  
> But IF Sherlock had Asperger, John would be very understanding and wouldn't think of him as an arse.
> 
> I'm truly sorry.


	10. wrong deductions and white lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was never my intention to offend or upset people with Asperger.  
> I used the term as a "nod" to the TV show were it is mentioned in "Baskerville". It was never commented on when I first posted this fanfic in german - and so I haven't given it a second thought.
> 
> I want to tell you that in this story Sherlock doesn't has Asperger - it is just that John is so upset and confused (and a little bit drunk). He's trying to make sense of Sherlock's behaviour and (in the context of the original show and this story) Asperger was the first thing that came to his (my) mind. It is not relevant for the rest of the story.
> 
> I have already changed some things in chapter 9 in this regard.

 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

Never Change a Running System

 

Part 10 – _**wrong deductions and white lies**_

 

It wasn't quite midnight when John finally got home. The rain had stopped, so he'd continued home on foot right after stuffing Lestrade into a taxi.

 

Lestrade had been so unsteady on his legs that John had almost had to carry him to the car. In doing so, he'd been unpleasantly surprised to discover that just because Lestrade was about the same size as him didn't make him any easier to manhandle.

 

John realised too late that he still had Lestrade's car keys in his jacket pocket. He'd have to call him tomorrow.

 

Or just drop by the Yard. That probably wasn't a bad idea anyway. Maybe he'd need a sympathetic ear after what still lay ahead of him tonight.

 

He felt more than a bit queasy at the thought, but he'd resolved to carry through with confronting Sherlock one way or another tonight.

 

He entered the flat with his stomach feeling the same way it did just before a visit to the dentist.

 

On the one hand, he was happy to find Sherlock awake. On the other hand...

 

"Hello, Sherlock," John said in greeting.

 

Sherlock was lying crosswise over his armchair. His head and legs were hanging off the armrests, and the news was flickering across the television screen. He was wearing pyjamas and his second-favourite dressing gown, and he had wound his blue scarf around his neck as well.

 

John frowned but didn't even get as far as remarking on the scarf, since after a brief, penetrating glance, Sherlock said, "I hope you didn't let Lestrade drive."

 

"What? How..." John exclaimed in astonishment. "I put him into a taxi. But how did you know?"

 

Sherlock's smile was slightly arrogant, but obviously pleased that he'd amazed someone with his deduction.

 

"Think, John. It's not so hard. Go on, try. You've seen me do it often enough. You know how it goes." He nodded at him in encouragement, if somewhat patronisingly.

 

John was speechless at first. This was really not going the way he'd imagined. But Sherlock was in a generous and approachable mood. That could only be advantageous. He decided to play along, and began to think hard.

 

"Okay. Right. Well... I smell like beer and cigarettes. That's how you know that I was at a pub..."

 

"And not just to pick up Lestrade and put him in a taxi. You were there long enough for the smell to impregnate your clothing quite thoroughly," Sherlock interjected. "Also, your jacket isn't wet... so you weren't outside while it was raining. Since it only stopped raining forty minutes ago, we can calculate the length of time during which you were not outside. There's no Underground station near a pub on your way home, so if you'd taken the tube, you would have gotten wet walking the rest of the way. If you'd taken a taxi when you got off work, you wouldn't have even gone to a pub, and been home hours ago. Therefore, you were on foot and happened to meet Lestrade in front of the pub just as it started raining."

 

John couldn't do anything other than stare at Sherlock in amazement. He'd arrived at the initial deduction himself, but the rest... He sat down in his armchair, both nonplussed and curious.

 

"I could have had an umbrella..." John presumed to remark.

 

"An umbrella," Sherlock drawled. "Then the rain would have left stains on your trousers and your shoes. You can't have had an umbrella, as yours is standing out in the hall and you didn't borrow one from the clinic, because if you had, where is it now?"

 

"Left it behind?" John proposed.

 

"Not likely. You're not the type to leave a borrowed umbrella behind."

 

John had to acknowledge the accuracy of the comment.

 

"I could have planned to meet Lestrade at the pub," John suggested further. "And I could have gone there by taxi. And how do you even know that it was Lestrade who I met?"

 

"Oh, please!" Sherlock grinned disparagingly. "If you'd planned it, you would have said something. No, it was a spontaneous, coincidental meeting. So, no taxi on the way there. In addition, you don't like going to the pub alone. Someone must have been there to provide you with company. If you'd been alone, you wouldn't have stayed so long. You would have left after one or two drinks and then either gotten wet or – if you'd taken a taxi – been home approximately an hour ago."

 

"But why Lestrade? It could have been anyone," John pointed out. "Stamford, or..."

 

"None of your other acquaintances has short, grey hair, and you wouldn't have gotten so close to a stranger. Lestrade had his hair cut today – I saw him briefly this afternoon, where I was able to deduce that he's finally realised that his wife isn't going to that pottery class... I would also have noticed then if he'd made plans for the evening. Lestrade isn't capable of keeping secrets." Sherlock was obviously enjoying putting his extraordinary and incomparable gift on display.

 

"Gotten close?" John asked, bewildered.

 

"You have short, grey hairs on your shoulder. There – on your jacket." Sherlock pointed, and John's eye followed the gesture.

 

Indeed. Lestrade had had his hair cut, and a few of the grey ends were right there on his jacket. That must have happened when John dragged him to the taxi.

 

"Well?" Sherlock asked, with more than a touch of cockiness. "Did I get everything? Or did I miss something?"

 

"No... that was..." John shook his head, dumbfounded. "Impressive. As always," he finally said.

 

Sherlock smiled, flattered.

"Good. Then there's something I need to discuss with you." His expression suddenly turned serious, and John felt the blood draining out of his face.

 

His hands and feet felt ice-cold despite the cosy warmth of the room. His head was strangely unencumbered – as if it had been swept clean – and his mouth was suddenly bone-dry.

 

John concluded, with more than a small amount of panic, that Sherlock must have noticed him last night and wanted to confront him.

 

Shit.

 

Wasn't anything going to go the way he'd planned it? What had he done to be so mercilessly persecuted by bad luck?

 

Sherlock sat up in his chair, leaned forward toward John, pressed his hands against each other, and rested his lower arms on his knees.

 

John tried desperately to come up with an explanation, an excuse, anything at all, but his brain refused to cooperate. His heart was beating in his throat, and he prepared himself for the worst.

 

And then something completely unexpected happened.

 

"John, why do you think you can hide your gambling debts from me?"

 

John didn't think he'd heard right at first.

"Gambling... debts?" he repeated, bewildered. "I don't have any..."

 

Sherlock took a deep breath.

"John," Sherlock said again insistently. "John... you're working more than usual. In addition, you drank more than three beers tonight, which is not in accordance with your usual habits. That means you're worried about something. That something happens to be money trouble. If it were a normal debt, you would have dipped into your savings. But your passbook is still in our wall safe, and I've hidden the key very well. You haven't asked me for the key once. Therefore, it must be a gambling debt that you want to hide from me because you know what I think of that kind of thing."

 

John just sat there in his armchair and gaped at Sherlock, who was observing him intently.

 

How could a man who was such a genius observe everything in such detail, and draw conclusions that were so far off-base? Why didn't Sherlock see that _he_ was the reason that John was worried and pulling extra shifts?

 

All of a sudden, he recalled their last Christmas party, and almost laughed out loud. Molly had been the one to suffer that time due to Sherlock's correct observations and incorrect deductions, because he hadn't understood that he was the target of her efforts.

 

Although Sherlock thought he was the centre of the universe, he almost never recognised when he was the cause of something. Sherlock apparently had a blind spot when it came to such things.

 

What should he do now? Lay his cards on the table and admit everything? Or let Sherlock continue believing the wrong thing?

 

John couldn't decide, since he knew quite well that Sherlock looked quite harshly on gambling and even more harshly on gambling debts. Since they'd been living together, however, he'd only indulged himself two or three times in the passion he'd developed during his time in the army, and Lady Luck had always smiled on him.

 

What was worse? To own up to his actual sin, or to accept the excuse that Sherlock had just served up on a silver platter, and in doing so, lie to his friend?

 

John's silence lasted too long for Sherlock's taste.

 

His sombre expression changed, becoming more searching and a bit gentler.

"John... I don't want you to work so much," Sherlock said reluctantly, as if the unspoken desire to have John come to him with his problems were something objectionable. "If you need money, come to me. No matter what you need it for. I have enough money." Sherlock paused. His expression betrayed his reluctance loud and clear, but he went on: "In part thanks to you. Thanks to your blog." He broke off and looked away from John; the admission was clearly difficult for him. "If necessary, I'll sell those idiotic cufflinks I never wear anyway. So... what was it this time? Horses? Football? How much do you need?"

 

Sherlock looked back at John. His tone of voice reflected nothing more than weariness this time. His pale eyes, however, were speaking another language altogether. John thought he recognised deep regard and concern.

 

John couldn't answer right away. His throat felt tight, and he was afraid the reason was sentiment. Very softly, somewhere deep inside him, the muffled, sparkling sound of a bassoon began to play.

 

And right then, John knew that he would never be able to confess. He wouldn't put this friendship on the line for anything. Even if it meant that he would never be able to – never be allowed to - express these confusing feelings that Sherlock set loose in him.

 

"You do realise that a speech like that is considered a sign of affection amongst normal people?" John finally said, once he trusted himself to speak.

 

Sherlock gave him an opaque look, and raised one eyebrow.

"Really? Purely self-protection. You know... I'd be lost without my blogger," he answered coolly and with a hint of mockery. "So – how much money do you need?"

 

"Thanks for the offer, Sherlock. But I don't need any money," John said dismissively. "It's all taken care of." John had made his decision. He was going to lie in order to maintain this unique friendship.

 

"No more overtime?" Sherlock pressed.

 

"No more overtime," John promised, and it turned out it was an easy promise to make.

 

It was a split-second decision, but he was sure it was the right one.

 

But just now, John didn't want to think about it anymore. He cast feverishly about for something to say to change the topic. His friend's unusual get-up caught his eye.

 

"Are you sick or something, or why are you sitting around the flat with your scarf on?" John asked, preparing himself to have to do service as doctor and handmaid in one. Sherlock was rarely ill, but there were days when he enjoyed being waited on a little.

 

"Oh – my bedroom door!" Sherlock cried in annoyance. "The latch doesn't close right and it keeps popping open. There's a draft somewhere too. In any case, I woke up this morning with a stiff neck. My bed must have been directly in the draft." Sherlock put on a sympathy-seeking expression. "Do you have anything to put on it? I can't turn my head to the left anymore."

 

John sighed. His first thought was: _'Yep, definitely one of those days._ '

 

But then it hit him that he'd wanted to try and tease out the reason for Sherlock's door having been open. What now? Could he still do it after Sherlock had displayed such a generous and caring attitude toward him? Could the reason for the open door be so simple? Was the door really broken? He'd have to check it out right away.

 

John stood up and turned to go. "Yeah, I have something somewhere. I'll go get it."

 

"And do something about my door!" Sherlock called after him. "Or tell Mrs Hudson to do something. She's the landlady, after all... as she constantly reminds us."

 

Before John got the salve, he went to Sherlock's door. It was hanging open a crack. Just like last night. John pulled it shut. A soft, weak click sounded. John let go of the handle, and the door popped open again. The door was really broken. Sherlock hadn't left it open on purpose. On the other hand... What if Sherlock had broken the door himself? On purpose?

 

horse's arse or coincidence?

 

Or neither?

 

John couldn't really complain about a lack of empathy, even if Sherlock was (luckily) barking up the entirely wrong tree. His obvious concern and his desire for John's company – even if he hadn't said it directly, the suggestion had been there - had done John a world of good and given him a warm feeling inside.

 

John couldn't help recalling the many times Sherlock had proven his compassion and affection. He could even be quite charming when he wanted to be. But that didn't happen often; he usually played the cynical fault-finder and know-it-all. Was Sherlock just wearing a mask, like most people did? In order to hide his true self from others? And if so, which was the mask, and which was the true Sherlock?

 

The question was moot anyway, because the man was beyond the reach of any attempt to explain or interpret him.

 

Sherlock was simply Sherlock.

 

And there was a certain fascination to him that not even a down-to-earth man like Gregory Lestrade could resist. Since John was aware of the fact, he felt a great deal better. Maybe he was just going through a phase. A phase, or rather wave, of enthusiasm that would retreat if he waited long enough and didn't pay it too much attention.

 

The profound friendship that he'd seen in Sherlock's eyes had opened his own eyes. Sherlock might have discovered his sexuality, but he still wasn't interested in other people in that way.

 

And the manner in which Sherlock was dealing with his newly discovered sexuality certainly played a role in John's conflicting emotions. Instead of shutting himself up in his room, Sherlock was asking John blunt and forthright questions, and artlessly expecting things of him that were, upon closer inspection, beyond discussion. For all of those reasons, it was unavoidable that John would now see Sherlock as a sexual being.

 

But to consider a romantic relationship – or any other kind of relationship – with Sherlock was flat out insane.

 

And although John would have liked to discover how Sherlock's lips tasted, or to feel that incredible man shaking in his arms one more time, he decided, for the sake of their friendship, to renounce such unsettling feelings.

 

It might not be easy at first, but it would work. He knew that from experience. At uni, he'd lusted after a girl – a fellow student - for months without anything ever happening. His infatuation hadn't survived it, and had soon died a natural death.

 

And that's what was going to happen this time too. The confusion and the fascination would ebb away, and the friendship would resume its original place of honour.

 

Sherlock only saw him as a friend anyway. That had become clear this evening.

 

John decided to heroically ignore the quiet, gnawing sadness that the thought ignited in him.

 

After all, he was a soldier. He'd learned to tame his emotions.

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

_**To be continued...** _

 

Don't worry – John may be a soldier, but he won't succeed! *evil grin*

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note:
> 
>  
> 
> I am drawing on several sources for the gambling.
> 
>  
> 
> First is a fact from the original stories. Holmes really did keep Watson's cheque-book under lock and key in his desk! The reason was never mentioned, however.
> 
>  
> 
> Then the suspicion amongst fans that the reason was Watson's gambling addiction, and...
> 
>  
> 
> The "confirmation" of this suspicion in the Holmes movie "Game of Shadows", in which Watson indulges in gambling at his stag party.


	11. the return of the banana costume

Never Change a Running System

 

Part 11 – _**the return of the banana costume**_

 

Breakfast with Sherlock the next morning was unspectacular, and John, who had the day off, made his way directly to the Yard to return Lestrade's keys.

 

When he entered the office, he saw right away that Lestrade had a massive hangover, so he lowered his voice to a stage whisper before wishing him a good morning.

 

Lestrade favoured him with a grateful look before he let his head fall back down onto the desk and hid it in the crook of his arm.

 

"Too bright," he groaned, causing John to smile in commiseration. Lestrade blinked up at John from under his elbow. "And what brings you here this morning? And all alone?" he asked, his voice slightly thick.

 

"Your car keys, Greg," John said, and laid them on the desk in front of the Detective Inspector. Then, without waiting for an invitation, he took a seat, since Lestrade was obviously not in any state to abide by the rules of politeness.

 

"So it was you I was at the pub with," Lestrade stated, then shrugged his shoulders. "It could have been worse."

 

"Don't remember?" John asked sympathetically.

 

"Vaguely..." Lestrade replied shortly, then thought hard. "Hey, where's my car?"

 

John had to muster all of his self-control in order not to smirk.

"Can't tell you that, Greg. We ran into each other in front of the pub."

 

"Fantastic," Lestrade said tiredly. "Fan-bloody-tastic." He straightened up with some effort, and leaned back in his chair. "Still too bright," he moaned in a pained voice and rubbed his temples.

 

"Coffee, aspirin, and at least two pints of water," John recommended. "Sorry I can't help you with the car." He made to get up.

 

"Hold on, wait a minute," Lestrade cried, wincing painfully at the sound of his own voice. When he'd gathered himself again, he leaned forward and crossed his arms on the desk. "Did I talk a lot of shite yesterday?" he asked in a confidential tone. "I can get pretty gabby after the third beer." He made a broad gesture with his hand.

 

John decided to keep the secret to himself.

"No, you don't have to worry, Greg," he assured him, not entirely truthfully.

 

Lestrade rested his chin on his right hand and regarded John sceptically through narrowed eyes.

"Why do I not believe you?" he muttered quietly. "But fine." He shrugged. "Thanks for forgetting my gibberish. Whatever it was."

 

"No problem," John replied with a smile, and this time he really did get up.

 

"Oh, before I forget," Lestrade called him back once more. "Here." He handed John a photocopied page. "Invitation. Christmas do. Here at the Yard. Could be fun. And bring Sherlock. He's always refused. We can get him wasted and take pictures."

 

John ran his eye down the sheet, then looked up in surprise.

"Why would we do that?"

 

"You know..." Lestrade tapped his nose. "Revenge for the banana costume?"

 

John's cheeks flared alternately hot and cold.

"You know about that?" he hissed between gritted teeth. Oh, Sherlock was going to pay!

 

"'Know' is saying too much," Lestrade qualified it by saying. "He was messing about with his phone recently and kept giggling. I happened to catch a glimpse over his shoulder... I saw him looking at these pictures. Of you, in a banana get-up." The memory caused a grin to flicker over Lestrade's face.

 

"I am going to kill him for that," John cursed softly, and went to the door.

 

"How about it?" Lestrade wanted to know. "Are you two coming to the Christmas party?"

 

"You can bet your life on it. Even if it means I have to drag him here by his ears!" John cried, furious, causing Lestrade to wince in pain again.

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

As soon as he got home, he shouted for Sherlock, still upset.

"You are going to delete those banana pictures immediately!"

 

"Why should I?" Sherlock called back. John followed his voice, only to find Sherlock sitting on the couch in the living room with his own laptop in front of him for once.

 

"Why?!" John fumed. "Lestrade _happened_ to see them! He said you were giggling. _Giggling_! Delete them right now! Who knows who else _happens_ to have seen them. Is that what you call keeping a secret for me?"

 

"I never giggle," Sherlock snipped, without looking up from his laptop.

 

John threw his arms angrily in the air.

"Is that all you have to say?!"

 

"Yes. I don't know why you're getting so upset." He patted the empty space to the right of him. "Sit. I need your advice."

 

John blinked in surprise, momentarily distracted and rather flattered.

"My advice? Really?"

 

"You say that as if I never ask for your advice," Sherlock responded, somewhat insulted.

 

"You don't," John replied dryly. "Fine, what's it about? New case?"

 

Sherlock looked up at John mischievously.

"Not exactly, but it is something I've been working on for a few days. Now come here."

 

Defeated, John let himself sink down next to Sherlock on the couch and looked at the laptop screen. "Oh no," he groaned. "Not again..." His eyes narrowed and he bent closer to the screen. "Are those studs?"

 

Sherlock had logged into an online shop for sex toys on the internet. At the moment, the screen was almost entirely filled with a picture of a strangely bent (and hot pink) vibrator.

 

"What do you think?" Sherlock asked coolly. "According to the description, the angle is especially designed for prostate..."

 

"Sherlock!" John cut in. "Why the fixation with your prostate?"

 

Sherlock gave him an uncomprehending look.

"Because I still haven't managed to successfully..."

 

"Yes, all right! Leave it," John interrupted him quickly. "Forget I asked." He leaned back on the couch and took a deep breath. "You're not going to leave me alone until you've figured it out, are you?" He looked up at the ceiling, avoiding Sherlock's eye.

 

"John, confirming things one already knows is boring."

 

"If you say so," John muttered quietly, strenuously trying to avoid imagining Sherlock in action with that vibrator. He still felt a familiar warmth in his groin. John hadn't counted on putting the strength of his resolution to the test quite so soon. He concentrated on his breathing and felt himself calming down. Good. He had himself under control again.

 

"Right. Sherlock, you want my advice?" He waited for his friend to nod briefly. "Then you're going to get it. You may not like it, but that's entirely your problem." He paused to make sure Sherlock was listening, because he didn't want to have to repeat this little lecture. "I know you're a technology freak. No, let me finish. It's true and you know it too. And that's okay. But in this area, you should give up your fixation on all this plastic stuff. Buy an enema set and a couple of pairs of latex gloves at the druggist's, and use your fingers. They're long enough. And flexible enough. All that violin playing is going to finally pay off."

 

Sherlock sat there silently, apparently seriously considering and analysing what he'd said.

"Your argument makes a certain amount of sense. The plug I've been using hasn't lived up to my expectations, and is a far cry from the manufacturer's claims. You know which one I mean."

 

And how John knew. He recalled the sight vividly, as well as the feelings it had set off in him. With a certain degree of horror, he realised that his brain wasn't the only part of his body that remembered it well. It took all of his concentration to suppress the budding feelings of arousal.

 

"I have no idea what you're talking about," John lied – fortunately without turning red.

 

Sherlock gave him a quick, calculating, and slightly bewildered look.

"Yes, you do, John... the plug I was wearing recently when you were standing outside my door. You must have seen it."

 

The words hit John like a bolt of lightning. A ball of ice formed in his stomach, while his cheeks burned with heat. His limbs fell asleep and went numb. His head felt like a dry sponge. His tongue lay like damp sawdust in his mouth. Still, he tried to speak in order to salvage what he could. Why didn't anyone ever drop a bomb on you when you needed it?

 

"Sherlock, I..." But neither his heavy tongue nor his equally heavy brain could come up with anything else. Only then did he notice that Sherlock was still clicking calmly around in the internet. How in the world could Sherlock be so calm? Had he not noticed _everything_? It was possible... after all, he'd been pretty well occupied.

 

But if John thought the worst was over at that point, he was wrong. Dead wrong.

 

"And if we're discussing keeping secrets... since you have unusually high moral scruples, I can guarantee that no one will find out from me that you were aroused," Sherlock stated, as if he were merely asking after the sell-by date on the milk. At the same time, he logged out of the internet and shut down his computer.

 

John didn't know whether he was coming or going any more. His entire life couldn't have prepared him for this moment. So he did what he usually did in a high-stress situation. He tried to deny it.

 

"Aroused? What... How... I was not aroused!" he cried. He had wanted to sound indignant – like a suspect who had been falsely accused of a crime – but even he had to admit that his stammering didn't sound very convincing.

 

Sherlock snapped his laptop shut before turning to look pensively at John, his head tilted slightly to one side.

"Your breathing sounded like it, and you were in quite a hurry to get to your room. Why didn't you come in? I might have been able to help you. It would only have been fair of me to finally return the favour for your help."

 

For a few completely crazy seconds, John thought he was going to faint. His head was spinning, and the lump of ice in his stomach was making him feel nauseous. _Sherlock would have_... Certain parts of his body reacted enthusiastically to the idea, but John didn't even dare think about it. Nonetheless, for the next few seconds – which stretched out for a mini-eternity – he did nothing but.

 _Sherlock would have_... John squeezed his eyes and his lips together and shook his head hard. "Sherlock... That wouldn't have been right..." he finally got out.

 

"Why not? It might have been interesting," Sherlock noted. His eyes regarded John with curiosity as well as a bit of irritation.

 

"Interesting," John repeated flatly.

 

He understood. Sherlock hadn't offered him anything more nor less than mechanical assistance. He might even have turned it into an experiment. John realised right then that he would probably be welcome in Sherlock's bed any time, but that Sherlock would merely be using him like one of his toys. Without any further emotion.

 

In an odd confluence of clarity and self-awareness, John knew that that wouldn't be enough for him. That wasn't what he wanted. He didn't just want an outlet for his physical desires. He wanted more. He wanted sex and emotion. He did want Sherlock, but he also wanted to have an emotional connection to him. However, he knew that he could never have that. Sherlock didn't do emotions. At least he didn't do them in a relationship. Not if it meant anything more than friendship.

 

"Yes, interesting," Sherlock confirmed. "But let's not discuss it further. Would you recommend any particular enema?"

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

Amazingly enough, John didn't suffer much over the next few days. The feelings of guilt that he'd carried around with him from his foray into voyeurism dissolved completely in light of Sherlock's matter-of-fact comments.

 

He bore life with Sherlock and his sometimes grotesque ideas and remarks with calm composure. The knowledge that there was no future for his innermost desires didn't depress him at all. Quite the opposite, in fact: it had a downright liberating effect on him.

 

It also didn't bother him any more when his masturbatory fantasies – heretofore populated by plush breasts and thighs - were sometimes invaded by masculine bodies with dark, curly hair and a sarcastic smile. He took things as they came and resolved not to lose his shirt over it.

 

However, his calm composure was broken one night when he was torn out of a deep sleep by a loud cry.

 

"Sherlock!" he shouted, aghast, and ran down the stairs in his pyjamas. The long, draw-out cry accompanied John all the way down, and only petered out to a breathless gasp when he was right in front of Sherlock's door. John was prepared for the worst; although it hadn't really sounded like a cry of pain. Had it?

 

The latch on the door had been repaired, so the door was now completely closed. John hesitated for a moment. Should he burst in or knock?

 

After a brief internal battle, he banged his fist against the door.

"Sherlock?! Is everything all right? Are you okay?!"

 

"John... You were right," came the muted answer through the door. "Fingers are sufficient."

 

The image that those few words conjured in John's mind's eye caused more than just a brief tug in his groin. He swallowed hard and managed a weak "Good for you," through the door.

 

He should really go now, but his blood was still pounding hot and fast through his veins, and a lustful urge had seized hold of him. Should he go in or leave? For a few frantic seconds, the decision hung in the balance, but then John turned and went back to his room. He was too proud to stand in for a vibrator.

 

Once in his room, he wiped the cold sweat off his forehead. His pyjama shirt was sticking clammily to his back.

"Fuck you," he cursed softly and lay down on his bed. His agitated brain threw image after image at him of long, white fingers and sinewy legs, shaking with arousal. "Fuck, fuck, fuck..." he cursed again and shoved his hand into his pyjama bottoms.

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

As was to be expected, Sherlock was still asleep when John went to make breakfast the next morning. As they were out of not only milk but also toast and jam, he reluctantly pulled on his jacket in order to go shopping.

 

His thoughts were still circling around the events of the previous night; his mood regarding the same was still undecided. But when he ran into a hysterical Mrs Hudson on the stairs, he was able to remind himself of the humour of the entire situation.

 

"Good morning, Mrs Hudson," he greeted her.

 

Mrs Hudson actually grabbed his sleeve with one hand and held onto him, a sure sign of her agitated emotional state.

"What in the world was going on last night? I heard screaming! It came from your flat." Her voice wavered between horror, curiosity, and indignation.

 

John began to suspect what the point of the interrogation was, and he had to suppress a grin.

"That was Sherlock," John replied simply, and carefully removed Mrs Hudson's hand from his jacket.

 

"Sherlock?" She made a sound of concern. "Good heavens – did something happen to him? Is he all right?"

 

John couldn't help smirking at this point.

"I'm sure he's doing splendidly," he answered.

 

"How can you be so sure?" Mrs Hudson insisted stubbornly. "You haven't seen him yet this morning, have you? Because I only heard one person walking around in the flat."

 

John sighed quietly, but with a smile. "No, I haven't seen him yet, but I don't have to. My deductions may not be as brilliant as his... but as a doctor I'll go out on a limb and guess that he and his prostate got acquainted last night. Quite successfully, in my opinion."

 

"He and his... Oh!" Mrs Hudson, with sudden comprehension, clapped her hands over her mouth while her cheeks turned scarlet.

 

"Exactly," John agreed with a slightly indecent grin. "Good day, Mrs Hudson." He turned around to go.

 

"But you..." Mrs Hudson said bashfully.

 

"I had nothing whatsoever to do with it," John replied firmly, and fled the house before he burst with laughter, so to avoid drawing her eternal animosity on himself.

 

The expression on her face had been so precious that he seriously considered gloating over the whole thing with Sherlock.

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

The next few days passed by with a halfway decent case concerning a fish, a signet ring, and marital infidelity. Sherlock didn't exactly was enthusiastic about it, but he did go about the investigation with a pleasing diligence, and the mood around Baker Street 221B was relaxed and even – thanks to Mrs Hudson's biscuits – tending toward Christmassy.

 

On the day of the Yard Christmas party that Sherlock and John were invited to, however, Sherlock was in a difficult mood, to put it mildly.

 

John tried not to do or say anything that would antagonise him further; although there was nothing he hated more than playing the whipping boy during one of Sherlock's pouts, neither did he have any particular desire to go the party alone.

 

Everything was going fairly well until they were sitting in the taxi, where John committed the incaution of yawning.

 

To which Sherlock said, "You should sleep more, then you wouldn't be so tired during the day."

 

"I wouldn't be so tired if I didn't get woken up every night by your screams of ecstasy," John retorted, irritated.

 

Sherlock's eyes flashed at him angrily.

"Every night?? You should really learn to count, John. It's happened exactly twice. I needed reference values, obviously."

 

"The first time was already once too many. And it wasn't just me you woke up, the whole house could hear you."

 

"Is that so? Then why hasn't anyone complained about it?"

 

"Because everyone but you has a speck of common decency and doesn't want to bring up such a delicate topic unless it's absolutely necessary."

 

"That's ridiculous!"

 

"No, that's _manners_! And the next time, bite your pillow or something, for God's sake. As long as you're not so loud the entire street can hear you."

 

"It was just the house before, now it's the entire street... Really, John. You should pay more attention to your own hyperbole. Why are you so upset anyway?"

 

"Because with all that yelling, people are going to think we're going at it like rabbits," John shot back furiously, not even thinking about the cabbie, who had been listening in with great interest since the start of the argument. "And yet it's only you who doesn't waste a single opportunity to stick your fingers up..."

 

"You told me to!"

 

"So?!"

 

"John, you're being terribly illogical today." Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest. "And I don't want to go to this party."

 

"You either come or you delete those pictures!"

 

"No."

 

"Then you're coming to the party. That was the deal. You agreed."

 

"Under duress! And under protest!"

 

"You're going to go, you're going to be pleasant to the people there, you're going to drink a glass of wine, and you're going to have a good time! Is that clear!" John raged in his best commanding officer voice.

 

"Yes, sir." Sherlock mock-saluted. "I do like it when you get your officer on."

 

"Shut up! Just shut up!" John hissed at him.

 

Just then, the taxi came to a halt. John got out, leaving Sherlock to pay the cabbie.

 

As Sherlock handed the driver the money, the man asked, "What're the pictures of?"

 

"Him wearing a banana costume," Sherlock answered neutrally.

 

"You have a Chiquita fetish or something?" the cabbie said, shaking his head. "Why do I always get the perverts?" He took the money and drove off without making change.

 

John had heard the exchange and didn't know whether to fume or laugh. His expression was no challenge for Sherlock to read. After a brief glance at him, his friend said, "Not another word. You started it."

 

"You ticked me off first," John responded, his voice trembling with suppressed laughter.

 

A smile passed briefly over Sherlock's lips.

"Touché," he said simply.

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

The party was officially being held in the rooms that were used for press conferences and internal meetings, but the partygoers had spread out over the entire level.

 

Lestrade seemed to have been lying in wait for John and Sherlock; as soon as they stepped out of the lift, he came over to them with two glasses of wine, shoving them into their hands.

 

"You're in a good mood, Lestrade," Sherlock noted with his usual slightly patronising manner.

 

"I have every reason to be!" the Detective Inspector crowed cheerfully. "My wife tricked me with the pottery class because she was learning how to fish. She wanted to surprise me with it for Christmas. Now she'll be able to come with me on my next fishing trip. Isn't that unbelievable?!"

 

"All I can say is..." Sherlock stopped, then finished by saying, "All's well that ends well."

 

Lestrade beamed. "Thanks! Have fun, you two!" With a cheerful wave, he disappeared into the crowd.

 

"Why did you kick me?" Sherlock asked John.

 

"You know bloody well why, otherwise you wouldn't have reconsidered and wouldn’t have said something other than what you were planning on saying," John growled quietly.

 

"I was simply going to open his eyes to what exactly his wife was fishing for. My personal belief is that it was the fishing instructor," Sherlock retorted, slightly insulted. "He has a right to know the truth."

 

John sighed.

"Sherlock, he has a right to be happy. It's Christmas. Let it go. Maybe it's already over with the instructor, or maybe there wasn't anything going on at all and she only had a crush on him, and Greg would get upset over something that... You know what I mean!" he concluded angrily.

 

Sherlock frowned.

"Not really. And yes – it is over with the instructor. Why doesn't he finally divorce the woman? She's a notorious adulteress."

 

"He loves her."

 

Sherlock snorted derisively.

"How do you know that?"

 

"He told me."

 

"But that doesn't make any sense!" Sherlock cried. "She keeps making him unhappy."

 

"Love doesn't really have to make sense," John said, and realised that he must have spoken in a tone of voice that caused Sherlock to eye him critically.

 

But he only remarked, "Stupid," and turned away.

 

John breathed out in relief and went looking for the promised cold buffet.

 

Two glasses of wine later John allowed himself to turn his vigilance down a notch and relax. Sherlock hadn't insulted anyone more than was usual, and at least was making the appearance of not being bored. John decided he could concentrate on having his own fun now. His advanced state of relaxation caused him to miss a certain fact that was very much a subject of interest to a small group of young ladies who were whispering and giggling about it.

 

John Watson was standing directly under a sprig of mistletoe.

 

He only became aware of the fact when a plump brunette approached him. The determination in her eye and the bright red spots on her cheeks engendered a feeling of foreboding in him and made him look up. When he saw the mistletoe, he realised that neither flight nor rejection were viable options.

 

And so he accepted the inevitable and allowed her to kiss him. _'Why not_ ,' he thought to himself. _'It's been far too long since you've kissed a woman anyway.'_

 

Unfortunately, it occurred to him just as her lips – tasting unpleasantly of artificial strawberries – pressed against his that he'd wondered not all that long ago what it would be like to kiss Sherlock on the mouth.

 

His eyes automatically sought – during the kiss - dark curls and a slender figure in the crowd. When he caught sight of Sherlock, he'd just turned his back. John was grateful, as otherwise his friend would have read in his face the longing and the thousand questions that had suddenly come over him.

 

He didn't notice that Sherlock was standing in front of a framed certificate that was hanging on the wall, nor that the room behind Sherlock was reflected in its glass. His friend actually had a very good view of the area beneath the mistletoe. He saw not only the plump brunette kissing John; he also saw that John hadn't closed his eyes.

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

Sherlock was aware of mass media's attempt to make the average consumer believe that romance or love went hand in hand with cheesy violin music. He had always found that to be the pinnacle of sentimental tripe.

 

But now he paused, listened, and paid attention to what was going on inside him. There was something stirring ... vibrating ... something that he hadn't thought he possessed, or at least that had been lost. Wiped from the map. Gone forever. There was no doubt about it, though, that there was something... in his chest, in his head, deep in his belly.

 

He wanted to put it down to the cheap wine, but he'd only taken a couple of sips. Certainly not enough to cause such a physical reaction. Not to mention auditory hallucinations.

 

Still bewildered, Sherlock realised that the muffled vibration was emanating from somewhere near his diaphragm and was louder than his own heartbeat. A dark, mysterious rhythm that put him in mind of heathen rituals and made him feel strangely restless.

 

And on top of all that was the surprising insight that John wanted him.

 

_**(To be continued…)** _


	12. mistletoe

Never Change a Running System

 

Part 12 – mistletoe

 

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

An idea was taking shape in Sherlock's mind, but first he needed confirmation of his theory. It might be coincidence. For a watertight deduction, he needed more data, more facts, more clues.

 

And so for the rest of the evening he waited patiently for John to be attacked under the mistletoe again. That wasn't difficult, as there were at least two sprigs placed more or less strategically, hanging from the ceiling in every room. It didn't take long before another giggling woman approached John.

 

Sherlock decided that John must either be distracted by other things, or that he really _wanted_ to be caught under the mistletoe. Even if John didn't usually pay as much attention to his surroundings as he should, he was generally more attentive than this, and a mistake like that wouldn't happen to him twice in a row.

 

_Was it on purpose?_

Hadn't had a date in several days.

Sentimental because of Christmas.

No new porn downloaded from the internet to his laptop.

Old porn not opened in a while.

Three glasses of wine and a whisky.

 

Sherlock paused. No. Alcohol fit better with the following question:

 

_Was it carelessness?_

Gaze often empty.

Laughs only after hesitating when a joke is told.

Has to be addressed more than once by three separate people before reacting.

 

Under normal circumstances, John was an open book to Sherlock, no challenge at all there. But today, something was... different about him. Sherlock knew it. He simply couldn't identify what it was. The mystery made his heart beat faster.

 

Of course the unsolved mystery was the reason. What else could it be? He hadn't overdosed on nicotine patches in quite a while, and he hadn't been running or eaten too much. To say nothing of there being a new serial killer.

 

Sherlock turned his attention to what was going on inside him again. Yes, his heart rate was slightly elevated – similar to the discovery of a serial killer's second victim ... even if it wasn't clear yet whether it was truly a series of murders or not.

 

He registered movement at the edge of his field of vision and stopped analysing his heartbeat. Yes – the woman was hanging around John's neck.

 

It was easy for Sherlock to observe this kiss as well without John – or anyone else – noticing. His lips curled in a scornful smile. As if anyone from the Yard ever noticed anything that wasn't jumping up and down right under their noses.

 

Sherlock watched the progression of the kiss with interest, coming once again to the same conclusion as the first time. Instead of concentrating on the woman, John was looking at him.

 

Sherlock's teeth dug pensively into his lower lip. Two for two.

 

Was that enough data for a conclusive deduction? He decided that one more trial was necessary to arrive at a conclusion. But as it was getting late, he'd have to hurry.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he tracked John until he wandered close to another sprig of mistletoe a few minutes later. Sherlock shook his head slowly.

 

It had to be carelessness, because John hadn't been that pleased about the kiss. Oh, he'd smiled and been polite... but it was easy for Sherlock to see through that front. He'd seen John's polite smile often enough to be able to tell it apart from a real, honest smile – one that made his eyes light up.

 

John really wasn't all there tonight. But Sherlock wasn't about to complain. It only made his experiment that much easier.

 

Sherlock joined a group of tipsy secretaries that he had already picked out half an hour ago, and whom he had studiously avoided until now. Two or three quick words, a broad smile, a bit of clubbing over the head, and the drunkest one of them was on her way over to John.

 

Naturally, Sherlock was able to observe without being seen this time as well.

 

Three for three.

 

That couldn't be a coincidence. If it wasn't coincidence, then it was a pattern, a procedure, a system... and the truth.

 

_John wanted him._

 

There it was again. That vibration in the pit of his stomach. Irritated, Sherlock pressed his hand over it. He casually felt over his abdomen. Nothing. The vibration continued. It wasn't exactly unpleasant, but...

 

Sherlock shook his head, as if to shoo away an annoying fly. He didn't have time to deal with the idiocy of his body. He was busy with a chain of evidence here. All he needed was the last link: a confession.

 

Sherlock was seized by a surge of excitement. What an enlightening and entertaining evening! And he'd thought he'd be bored.

 

He snuck out into the hallway unnoticed; there, he pushed one of the speed dial numbers on his mobile. When it connected, he spoke in a low, quiet voice: "Mrs Hudson, don't say anything, just listen." A flood of words on the other end made it impossible for Sherlock to say anything. He gave up and listened, answering her questions when appropriate. "Yes, we're fine. No, nothing's happened. Mrs Hudson! Listen. Don't talk. Do you have any mistletoe in the house? If not, get some. Immediately."

 

"Yes, of course I have mistletoe," Mrs Hudson answered reproachfully. "Lucky for you, Sherlock, as I wouldn't know where to find any at this time of night."

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes impatiently.

"Not important," he said brusquely. "Now listen carefully, Mrs Hudson. Hang the sprigs up in front of our door."

 

"Your door? Do you mean the door to your flat? Or the door to the house?" Mrs Hudson asked.

 

"Our flat, of course! Why would I want mistletoe over the entrance to the house?" Sherlock replied indignantly. "John's shy." That wasn't exactly true, but it handily explained the basic facts of John's conflicting behaviour over the last few weeks. The rest was none of Mrs Hudson's business. She probably wouldn't have understood all of it anyway.

 

A squeal on the other end of the line caused Sherlock to hold the phone away from his ear in horror.

 

"Oh, you want to kiss him, you naughty boy, you," Mrs Hudson scolded him enthusiastically. "I'll go hang up the mistletoe right away. I just hope my hip..."

 

"Don't care," Sherlock growled.

 

"Well, I'd like to see you," Mrs Hudson nagged him. "I just have one question... Do you still need the second bedroom, and will it be that loud every night from now on?"

 

"That was two questions, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock corrected her. He didn't particularly feel the need to answer either of them. "And now go and hang up the bloody mistletoe. And don't come out when we get home."

 

Mrs Hudson laughed.

"Young love ... always so impetuous!"

 

Love? Dear God ... what else would they come up with? _Love_! Sherlock very nearly laughed in scorn. He was just completing his chain of evidence.

 

"It's an experiment, Mrs Hudson."

 

"What? But Sherlock..."

 

Sherlock hung up. He thought a lot of Mrs Hudson, but sometimes she really got on his last nerve. He found that he was just a bit nervous. Was it the thought that John was going to kiss him? Or was it Mrs Hudson's fault – she and her talk of love? In Sherlock's opinion, love was one of the most overrated myths of mankind. At best, it was a trick of evolution so that Homo sapiens didn't look on its own offspring as a handy source of food.

 

Still, there was no doubt that he was excited. Not as excited as shortly before the resolution of a case, but close enough.

 

Somewhat lost in thought, his eye fell to his right hand, and he noticed that he was still holding his wine glass. He lifted it decisively to his lips and tossed the rest of it down. He regretted it immediately. Peppermint. He was in urgent need of a peppermint drop. After all, he didn't want to endanger his plan with bad breath.

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

An hour later, John and Sherlock were standing in front of the door to their flat. With a quick glance, Sherlock had made sure that Mrs Hudson had carried out his instructions, and he positioned himself so that he was standing directly under the mistletoe.

 

John had unlocked the door in the meantime and was holding it open for him.

 

"Sherlock, why are you still standing there? Door's open," John said with a confused look. "You were the one who was in such a hurry to get home."

 

Sherlock was surprised that he didn't have an answer to that. He just stood there and tried to look intelligent and aloof.

 

John looked around, probably trying to find some explanation for Sherlock's behaviour. John... always so practical. Always looking for outside influences. Finally, he discovered the mistletoe.

 

"You're standing under some mistletoe," John stated unnecessarily.

 

Sherlock couldn't help it. He rolled his eyes.

"Do you really think I didn't know that?" he said impatiently.

 

John eyed him with suspicion.

"You're standing there on purpose." He frowned. "Why?" he asked.

 

"It's an experiment," Sherlock replied. It was the first thing that came to him, and it wasn't even a lie. It was an experiment. He wanted confirmation of his hypothesis. He simply had to know if he was right.

 

"An experiment," John repeated flatly.

 

"Yes," Sherlock said, and waited tensely. He noticed that his lips were parting without him even thinking about it. Interesting. He'd have to remember to take John's pulse afterwards.

 

His eyes ran over John. Clear, focussed gaze. Dilated pupils. Increased respiration. Oh – even that little red spot on his left cheek that only showed up when John was excited.

 

It was going to happen. Sherlock felt his respiratory rate increase as well. _'Clearly because I'm about to receive confirmation of the correctness of my deduction,'_ he thought to himself.

 

John actually did take one small step toward him and opened his mouth too. But then he stopped short, turned on his heel, and went into the flat without saying a word.

 

Sherlock watched him, confused. What was all that about? Everything had been there... All the signs of arousal had been there. Even that look in his eyes – it had been more than clear at such a short distance. It had looked as if ... he were looking at something very tempting. So why hadn't he done it?

 

Sherlock followed him into the flat. He felt restless and aggravated. He needed answers. John was still standing in the entryway, hanging up his jacket.

 

"Why..." Sherlock began, but he didn't get any further.

 

"You know everything else already!" John cut him off angrily.

 

Why was John angry? He himself might have had reason, now that his carefully planned experimental procedure had turned out to be for naught.

 

John's lips were pressed together into a thin line and his arms were crossed defensively over his chest.

 

"Of course I always know everything! That's precisely why..." Sherlock said, but he was interrupted again.

 

"So you stood under the mistletoe, on purpose, in order to get me to kiss you. Right?" John asked, as if it were an angry accusation.

 

"I..." Again, Sherlock wasn't able to get anything out. This was getting more and more annoying. John usually hung on his every word. The fact that he kept interrupting him led to the conclusion that he was really quite upset. But why? John wanted to kiss him. But John also had – completely ridiculous – moral scruples. Sherlock had given him the perfect excuse with the mistletoe. So what had gone wrong? It should have worked!

 

"How did you even come up with the idea that I might want to kiss you?!" John threw at him.

 

"You kept watching me at the Yard," Sherlock replied, baffled. Was John going to try and deny it?

 

John was gaping at him.

"Of course I was watching you! What..."

 

This time it was Sherlock who interrupted him.

"Whenever one of those women kissed you under the mistletoe, you kept your eyes open and watched _me_ instead of concentrating on _them_ ," he explained matter-of-factly. At last the facts were being laid out on the table. John couldn't help but bow to logic now.

 

"How..." John began, stopped himself, then continued with bright red cheeks, "You couldn't possibly have seen that! You had your back to me!"

 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. Was John really so slow? He sighed quietly. All right, he would have to enlighten him.

"John... there were plenty of reflective surfaces in that room. I know what I saw." Sherlock was interested to see how John's chest rose and sank. He was breathing harder. Was it still due to anger? Or was it the subconscious acceptance of inevitable defeat?

 

"And so you came to the brilliant conclusion that I wanted to kiss you?!" John cried, his anger undimmed. "You, of all people?!"

 

Sherlock blinked in surprise. What had gotten into John tonight?"

 

"It's the only logical..."

 

"I am not an experiment!" John screamed so loud that Sherlock heard a slight ringing in his ears. Before Sherlock could react, John was on his way to his room.

 

Sherlock wasn't able to catch him. Instead, he ended up with the door being slammed directly in front of his face.

 

John's behaviour was a mystery to Sherlock. Rather than getting kissed, he was standing here outside a closed door like a rejected lover in a third-class play. At least John hadn't bolted the door; he would have heard that. But what did one do in a case like this? Sherlock had never been in a situation like this before, but he knew that John liked to talk. He would have to talk to him.

 

He lifted his hand and rapped lightly with his knuckles against the door.

"John?" he called softly and, he hoped, in a conciliatory manner.

 

"No!" came the reply from inside.

 

Sherlock glared at the door and the unyielding doorknob. Why was nothing going the way he'd planned it tonight? John had been in a very difficult mood all day. Maybe he should try it again tomorrow. On the other hand... he wouldn't get any rest tonight, not with this uncertainty hanging over him. It was almost like that time with the cabbie's poison pills. He was still brooding over that unsolved mystery to this day. John's shot had caused both pills to fall to the floor, and it had been impossible to tell which one Sherlock had chosen.

 

 _John_. Oh, right. Giving himself a shake, Sherlock returned to the present. His mind must have drifted off for a bit. Sherlock decided to get to the bottom of this whole thing tonight. There was no question of him being burdened by another unsolved mystery like that of the poison pills.

 

He knocked on the door again. This time a bit more insistently.

 

"John, I..."

 

"No!"

 

Sherlock shrugged and took out a credit card. If John was going to be this unreasonable, he had no choice but to force the latch.

 

But no sooner had he bent over than he heard from the other side: "And don't even think about breaking in!"

 

John flung the door open, looked down at him with eyes that were filled with angry sparks, and tore the credit card out of his suddenly numb fingers.

 

Once again, the door was slammed in Sherlock's face, and this time John bolted it too. He stood up and listened. A drawer was opened inside the room, then closed again with unnecessary force. A metallic scraping sounded.

 

Drawer.

The one with the bandages.

Metal?

Scissors!

 

"John!" Sherlock shouted and hammered on the door with the flat of his hand. "Before you cut up that credit card... it isn't mine! It belongs to Mycroft!"

 

Sherlock waited for several seconds, feeling something like the beginning of panic rise in him. It hadn't been easy to steal the credit card from Mycroft, and he hadn't even been able to use it yet. Hopefully...

 

The door opened, and John stood before him with a strangely tired expression. He held out the credit card. There was already a small cut on the edge, but it hadn't really been damaged.

 

Sherlock took the card back.

 

"You want it. You know you do," Sherlock said.

 

John just watched him silently. Sherlock couldn't read his face this time, which annoyed him no end; it also made him feel just a little bit insecure.

 

"Have it your way," Sherlock sniffed. "But I'm going to get proof."

 

John slowly shook his head.

"No, you won't," he said with rare finality, and with surprising calm, given that it came on the heels of such a display of anger. "I refuse to be part of this experiment."

 

Sherlock's certainty in his own victory wavered in the face of such determination. But he resolved not to leave anything untried. He raised his chin a little higher.

 

"We'll see," he said.

 

 

**_(to be continued…)_ **

 

 


	13. a study in seduction

Never Change a Running System

 

**_a study in seduction_ **

 

**_Part 13_ **

 

The next day, Sherlock did what he always did when faced with an intractable problem. He researched it. He hadn't even taken time to get dressed. Since the early hours of the morning, he had been sitting in his pyjamas and – since he couldn't find his dressing gown – wrapped in a sheet, concentrating as hard as he could on his laptop.

 

At some point, John had spoken to him, but Sherlock hadn't been listening, since he'd filtered out all outside noise in order to focus single-mindedly on the problem. In order to avoid further disturbance, Sherlock had told him to be quiet. Amazingly, John had actually obeyed the direction, and Sherlock was making good progress in his research when he suddenly found Mrs Hudson standing next to him.

 

The fact that she was wringing her hands was a clear sign of how upset she was. Sherlock tried to ignore her in the vague hope that she would go bother John instead, but then she began to talk.

 

"Sherlock! What have you done?!" she asked, practically in tears.

 

Sherlock looked from the screen to his landlady, mildly irritated.

"Mrs Hudson," he said, not unkindly, "can't you knock?"

 

"I did knock!" she replied indignantly. "You didn't hear it. As usual."

 

"John would have..."

 

"That's just it!" she cried. "John is gone!" She fixed him with a hard look. "What have you gone and done now? I heard the two of you arguing last night."

 

"He's probably gone shopping." Sherlock shrugged. "He'll be back."

 

To his great surprise, Mrs Hudson slapped him on the shoulder.

"He hasn't gone shopping. I saw him get into a taxi. He had a suitcase." She had tears in her eyes, which she dabbed away with a handkerchief. "Oh, Sherlock! What have you done this time? It must be something horrible, or he wouldn't have left."

 

Left? John had left? Why hadn't he noticed? Had he again carried on talking even though John wasn't there? Damn it. It was all the fault of that awful aftershave John preferred. The scent drifted around a room for hours, positing an olfactory presence that was no longer there.

 

John couldn't have left. He would have said... Oh, no! Sherlock ran both hands through his hair. He had said something – only Sherlock hadn't been listening.

 

What had Mrs Hudson said? A suitcase. _One_ suitcase? He couldn't possible have crammed all of his possessions into _one_ suitcase. He'd have to come back to fetch the rest.

There would be a message for him somewhere.

His mobile?

Sherlock checked his texts.

Nothing.

A note?

Hand-written?

Yes.

But where?

Kitchen?

Kitchen.

 

Sherlock sprang up and strode into the kitchen. There was the note taped to the refrigerator, covered in John's writing.

 

_“Since you probably didn't think it important enough to make space for it in your genius of a hard drive... I'm off for Christmas. As I told you a week ago. My Uncle Seamus is turning sixty – he's invited all the relations. So, I'm spending the holidays with my family. If it's not too much trouble, please eat once in a while and take out the garbage._

_John”_

 

Relief coursed through Sherlock, and for a brief moment his knees went weak. Relief? About what? John had gone away for a couple of days and would be back the day after tomorrow. Mrs Hudson always made such a fuss over nothing.

 

Sherlock rubbed his hands together gleefully. This meant more time for him to come up with his strategy undisturbed.

 

"Sherlock!" cried Mrs Hudson in concern. "Tell me! What's going on? Will he be back? Did he leave you?"

 

"Of course he'll be back," he said with almost disdainful certainty, handing her John's note so that she could see for herself.

 

She flew over the few lines and laid her hand over her bosom in relief.

 

"Thank God," she sighed. "I was already thinking who knows what ... after the two of you arguing so loud last night." She looked around, but Sherlock was already barricaded behind his laptop again and had tuned out the rest of the world.

 

"I'd better fix him some dinner then... he won't think of it otherwise," she murmured to herself. "We don't want him to be all skin and bones when his John gets back."

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

Sherlock had found out via text when John would be back. It should be in about half an hour.

 

Sherlock had used the time he'd had to himself to read up thoroughly on every aspect of seduction. At first, he hadn't been quite sure how he was supposed to bring about the desired result – which was, if you thought about it, already achieved – but after following a series of internet links, he'd finally ended up on a page with the unlikely title _“Seduction for Dummies”._ He didn't actually want to seduce John, but the proposed methods seemed to be fundamentally both practical and promising. For that reason, he'd continued to research along those lines and studied all of the necessary mechanics. He was convinced that it was only a matter of time before John capitulated.

 

His experimental design consisted of five phases, but he didn't think he'd need to proceed any further than Phase Three.

 

He checked himself and his positioning over one last time with a critical eye. He'd draped his body over the couch. His back was resting against the armrest, his left foot propped up on the seat, the leg bent. His right leg, on the other hand, was stretched out into the room, with only his heel touching the floor. His legs were spread. Sherlock was rather pleased with himself. The lines of his legs would lead the observer's eye automatically to his groin.

 

He was holding his violin at an angle against his chest, the lower end of the instrument also emphasising the line down to his groin.

 

He was wearing the tightest black trousers he'd been able to find, paired with his dark purple shirt, which he'd unbuttoned down to his navel. His curls were – with the help of a bit of styling wax – artfully tousled, and his lips shimmered faintly – and therefore enticingly. At least that's what the lip balm advert had claimed. It was amazing what one could learn from teen magazines.

 

His entire posture should attract attention and extend an invitation. Sherlock hoped that John would be on time, because despite how pretty it all looked, it was bloody uncomfortable.

 

Footsteps on the stairs!

Time?

Ten minutes too early.

John?

Mrs Hudson?

 

Sherlock groaned in annoyance. She'd been trying to mother him the past couple of days. He'd mostly succeeded in tuning her out, but she had kept coming into the flat. He knew because he kept finding plates with sandwiches or little bowls of cold soup in the kitchen.

 

No, not Mrs Hudson.

The footsteps were too...

Yes.

The eighth stair creaked in that characteristic way.

John.

 

Sherlock tensed up suddenly. Why was he becoming tense? Of course... the excitement that preceded a new experiment, one whose outcome was uncertain yet promising.

 

Sherlock bit his lips in order to increase the blood flow. Red lips apparently signalled readiness to kiss. As previously noted, it was amazing...

 

The door.

Keys jangling.

Keys?

Ah, now John had noticed that the door was open.

 

His heart rate increased and he felt something stirring between his legs.

 

 _'Oh, please! Not now!'_ Sherlock thought, annoyed. He had no use for an erection in this phase of the experiment. It would throw the parameters off completely. Why did his penis always find the most inopportune time to make its presence known? John would revert to all of his old patterns of behaviour, and he would have gone to all this trouble for nothing.

 

Think of something unerotic.

Immediately.

Anderson.

 

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. That had been extremely efficient.

 

"Sherlock? Are you there?" John called out.

 

"Living room!" Sherlock called back, irritated at the vibration that was starting up in the pit of his stomach. It wasn't so much a vibration anymore; it reminded him more of Somalian drums. He hadn't been bothered by it for the last few days. If it kept on like this, he'd have to seek medical advice. This – whatever it was – was going to have a negative effect on his concentration in the long run.

 

"I hope you haven't..." Just then, John came into the living room. Sherlock would never know how that sentence would have ended, since John stopped in the doorway as if he'd been struck by lightning, staring at Sherlock – and his careful position – with his mouth hanging open.

 

Sherlock was exultant on the inside. He might even be able to complete the experiment tonight. John's reaction didn't allow any other conclusion.

 

All the signs of arousal were there. Even his blinking had slowed. Time to hit him with the big guns.

 

"Yes, John?" Sherlock drawled, making his voice a major third lower than usual.

 

Sherlock could see John swallow thickly at the sound of his voice ... his Adam's apple bobbed quite clearly.

 

Sherlock felt slightly feverish. He made quick note of it, mildly surprised, saving the data to analyse later. It was going to happen any moment now. John was going to take that one, all-important step toward him. Sherlock knew John – all it would take was that one step, and then the decision would be made and there would be no going back.

 

John cleared his throat – and stayed where he was.

 

"Harry says hi," he said hoarsely. He cleared his throat again. "I... I'll just unpack then... and ... is there anything to eat in the fridge? Or... should I get us something? Chinese maybe?"

 

"Indian," Sherlock responded automatically, watching incredulously as John turned around and left the room.

 

Sherlock identified the feeling that welled up in him as disappointment. Why hadn't his plan worked? It should have worked! Deep in thought, he moved out of his seductive pose and lay down full-length on the couch. His fingers plucked at the strings of his violin without coalescing into a recognisable melody.

 

After intense reflection, he had to admit that John – usually so straight-nosed, reliable, and easy to read – was posing something of a mystery, having upended his plans twice now.

 

A delighted smile flitted over his lips. A mystery.

 

How wonderful! At least he wouldn't be bored between now and New Year's. He didn't expect there would be any new cases – as always at this time of year, all of Britain was sitting under the Christmas tree, united in sickly sweet sentimentality... even the criminals. Sherlock knew that from painful experience. Divorce solicitors were the only ones whose business grew measurably, along with hospital A&E departments, although the cases generally involved misdemeanours such as domestic violence – often in combination with alcohol abuse. In other words, nothing that Sherlock was interested in, much less interested in solving.

 

Generally, then, the holidays were a time when his restless spirit rubbed itself raw due to lack of external stimuli, but this year John had, unbeknownst to him, given him the best Christmas present ever: a challenge for his genius!

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

_Experimental notes (cont'd)_

_Phase 2 carried out today. Experiment set up while subject ate breakfast._

_Alternate hot/cold shower._

_Nipples stimulated to increase blood flow._

_Towel-dried hair and arranged with fingers._

_Lower body scantily covered with small towel._

_Distributed water drops strategically on upper body. Corrected direction of rivulets toward navel._

_Lip balm._

_Exited bathroom. Entered living room. Sat down for breakfast._

_Observations:_

_Subject again showed all signs of arousal._

_Still did not act on it. Instead advised me to put on a dressing gown before I caught a cold._

_oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo_

_Experimental notes (cont'd)_

_Phase 3 spread out over several days._

_Presented self to subject wearing only boxers at every opportunity._

_Final variation involved additional step – half-mast erection and a strategic damp spot in the middle of pants._

_Only reaction during entire phase: hasty retreat from room, looking away frantically, furious shouts along lines of: "Jesus Christ, Sherlock! Put something on already!"_

_Phase 3 did not live up to expectations; results classified even more negative than Phase 1._

_oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo_

_Experimental notes (cont'd)_

_Phase 4._

_It should have worked!_

_Everything was perfect. The heat was turned up. To the maximum. It was disgustingly hot in the living room. My green shirt had sweat stains under the arms. Despite wearing it completely open, over my tight black trousers._

_Light film of sweat on upper lip and forehead._

_Nipples stimulated to make them darker and more prominent._

_Assumed supposedly seductive pose on the couch._

_Subject came home from clinic and could already be heard complaining in hall about scorching heat, then entered living room._

_I confirmed that it was really quite hot and lied about the heating being broken. This is where the actual experiment began._

_Ice cubes._

_I licked one, sucked it, rubbed it over my throat, my neck, and my chest. I moaned with pleasure from time to time._

_Dammit, it should have worked._

_John had... Subject had clear signs of an erection. It was visible clear across the room and I know why he ran up to his room so fast. Ha!_

_Maybe it's me?_

_He had said,_ "Why should I want to kiss YOU?"

 _Is it just_ ME _he doesn't want to kiss?"_

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

Before Phase 5 could begin, a new client turned up at Baker Street, commissioning Sherlock with the task of retrieving certain documents and photographs.

 

"You're being blackmailed," Sherlock determined, already bored. The case was better than nothing, though. The new year had already begun, and he hadn't made one iota of progress with John. A break might do him good.

 

"Well..." the man said. "Yes... I'm being blackmailed."

 

"What are the pictures of?" Sherlock asked.

 

"Oh, that's..." the client hesitated.

 

John interceded at this point.

"Sherlock, it's really none of our business."

 

Sherlock snorted.

"And how are we supposed to know if we find the right pictures?" he asked, irritated at so much ... lack of forethought. He'd wanted to say _stupidity_ , but John wasn't stupid. At least not usually.

 

"Oh," John said.

 

"Yes – Oh," Sherlock mimicked him sharply before turning back to their client. "So what are they of? Sex? Drugs? Minors? Chains? Whips? Women? Men? Weapons?" he pressed impatiently.

 

The man had turned pale.

"No, no – my God," he protested with wide-open eyes. "They're just pictures of me... and other documents that only concern me... You see... I was ... I... My name hasn't always been George. I was born Cynthia. I've had all the operations and ... my ID says George ... but... my employer has no idea and ... this blackmailer is threatening me with..." The man, close to tears, passed a photograph to Sherlock in which a young woman was visible.

 

Now it was Sherlock's turn to look stricken. He supposed he was meant to be ashamed of the way he'd conducted the interview. A quick glance at John... reproachful look. Rebuking. Yes. Ashamed was the way to go.

 

Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Do you have any further information that could help us?"

 

The man nodded uncertainly and handed Sherlock a folder. Sherlock flipped through the contents. Copies of his birth certificate, a few duplicates of other documents, and the blackmail notes.

 

"All right, we have everything. We'll take care of it and get back to you in a few days." Sherlock stood up and held out his hand to the client.

 

The man took it gratefully and shook it.

"Will you be able to do it?"

 

Sherlock smiled tightly.

"You may rely on it."

 

Once the client had left, John asked, "You know who's blackmailing him?"

 

"I have a general idea," Sherlock responded, sitting down with his laptop.

 

"Well?"

 

"What, well?" Sherlock answered absently.

 

"Are you going to share it with me? Or am I just supposed to run gasping after you?" John retorted sarcastically.

 

The words conjured a smile onto Sherlock's face. At least John still wanted to participate actively in investigations. That was something. He couldn't find him completely repulsive.

 

"There are three or four serious brokers in secrets," Sherlock explained. "It's probably one of them... and I have a feeling... It's probably Charlie Milverton." He tapped his nose. "Interested in a bit of law breaking? Could be dangerous."

 

John grinned.

"Dangerous? The magic word. You know too well how to manipulate me."

 

Sherlock's smile dampened somewhat.

 _'If only that were true_ ,' he thought bitterly.

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

Three days later, John and Sherlock were on the run from the police, following a nocturnal break-in at Charlie Milverton's that hadn't exactly gone according to plan. Sherlock was in front – going by the loud panting, John was just behind, happily. A police siren, much too close, broke the stillness of the night.

 

Sherlock's brain sought feverishly for some route to get away. A map of London spread itself out in his mind. They had to get off the main thoroughfare.

 

Left.

Fire escape.

Broken.

Damn it!

Straight.

Fence.

Continue.

 

The sirens were still there! When were they going to give up?

 

Brakes.

Car doors.

Shoes.

Two pairs.

Shit.

Pursuit on foot.

Right.

Stairs.

Courtyard.

Garage.

Right.

 

Fantastic.

The first warning cries.

"Stop! Police!"

 

"Sherlock! Do something!"

 

Wonderful.

John in panic.

That was certainly conducive to thinking

Concentrate, Sherlock!

 

Left.

Across the intersection.

Frantic honking.

 

"Sherlock!"

 

"Police!"

 

Right.

Pub.

Kitchen.

Surprised cries and angry cursing.

The cook.

Should have been expected.

Back exit.

Right.

Left.

Alley.

Rubbish container.

Perfect.

 

Sherlock pulled John behind the rubbish container, and both of them held their breath. They couldn't hear the police sirens any more, but the police officers' footsteps still echoed through the streets ... and stopped short.

 

"Damn it, where'd they go?"

 

"No idea. Must've disappeared into thin air."

 

Steps moving away; voices getting softer.

John, exhaling in relief.

 

It was only now that Sherlock realised how close they were standing to each other. Out of nowhere, the pulsing drums started up in the pit of his stomach. His heart skipped a beat and his mouth went dry. Their bodies were pressed against each other along their entire length. All John had to do was tilt his head up a bit...

 

"That was close," John said with a low whistle.

 

"Just a bit," Sherlock admitted. His respiration sped up slightly, and his head felt strangely empty. Why had he never noticed how dark blue and profoundly deep John's grey-blue eyes looked in the moonlight? And since when did he have that thin ring of light brown around his pupils? Were his pupils dilated, or did it just look like it in this dim light?

 

John laughed.

"Why did you have to go and play burglar?" he asked.

 

Sherlock licked his lips. Was he nervous? Were his lips dry? Why hadn't he thought to bring along the lip balm? Because he hadn't planned for this. Maybe that had been the problem all along? He'd planned too much. Left too little to coincidence?

 

"We do have the documents now," Sherlock said. Although he wasn't really interested in the case anymore. The sight of John's lips so close to his own was more than just a little distracting.

 

"One more case successfully closed." John sighed in relief.

 

There was absolute silence for several seconds. Sherlock knew that this was one of those moments that other people called _magic_ , which came about in every single one of those cheesy movies that John enjoyed watching from time to time.

 

Without him even thinking about it, Sherlock's lips parted slightly and he waited, expectant and just a bit apprehensive, for John to kiss him. It had to happen this time. After all, it was a _Moment_.

 

But nothing happened.

 

"Why isn't it working?!" Sherlock cried out in sudden frustration.

 

John appeared confused about his outburst.

"What?" he asked. "What isn't working?"

 

"Why haven't you kissed me yet?!" Sherlock threw the million-pound question at him.

 

"Why should I?" John shouted back, agitated.

 

"Because you want to!" Sherlock insisted stubbornly.

 

John gave him an appraising look with a calmness that seemed downright eerie.

"How do you know that?" he finally asked.

 

"How do... Because I tested it! It's been scientifically proven! I tried out the ice cube thing in a bar. I got more than ten phone numbers out of it! Any one of them would have kissed me in a second!" He rummaged around in his coat pocket and pulled out the crumpled notes, holding them under John's nose. "I could have had anyone of them! Women and men! Just like that!" He snapped the fingers of his free hand.

 

"Well then, everything's fine," John replied coolly – or was that sarcasm?

 

"No, it's isn't! Why does it work on everyone else but you?" Sherlock knew that he sounded desperate and agitated, but he couldn't have cared less at that moment.

 

"If you don't know, then I can't help you either," John answered coldly and – at least it seemed to Sherlock – slightly disappointed. He then turned around and left.

 

Sherlock watched him go. The crumpled papers slipped from his numb fingers one by one. A strangely bitter taste lay on his tongue. He was cold. But the reason wasn't the January night; rather, it was his blood freezing to ice, where it had flowed through his veins as hot and thick as lava just a few seconds earlier. The drums inside him had fallen silent.

 

Something had changed. He'd changed.

He didn't just want John to kiss _him_ anymore.

He wanted to be kissed _by_ John.

He wasn't sure himself why that should make a difference, but it did.

 

In his whole life, Sherlock had never before felt as helpless as he did at that moment. He simply could not understand why John was being so stubborn. The mystery had stopped being amusing.

 

Desperate times required desperate measures. No matter how much he hated doing it, he was going to have to get a second opinion.

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

The rooms were cool and dark and smelled like leather, whisky, floor wax, and tradition.

 

Sherlock knew which way to go even though he'd never been here before – it had been described to him. Reluctantly but with grim determination, he entered the room where he knew someone was waiting for him.

 

"Ah, Sherlock. The mountain has finally come to Mohammed."

 

Sherlock's lips curled disdainfully. How he hated that voice. Nasal. Arrogant. Conceited. Disgusting.

 

"Have a seat, Sherlock. What brings you to the Diogenes Club, little brother?"

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

**_To be continued..._ **

 

 

And here is a picture of Mr Freeman where his eye colour shows really well.

click here for larger version:

<http://i53.tinypic.com/2rq2dmo.jpg>

 


	14. monkey business

Never Change a Running System

 

**_monkey business_ **

 

Part 14

 

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

"I presume you're not here to return my credit card," Mycroft remarked with a self-satisfied smile. He was balancing a tea cup and a saucer in one hand.

 

"Oh, you noticed?" Sherlock said as he took a seat across from Mycroft.

 

Mycroft placidly took a sip from his cup, then said, "Oh, please. Naturally, I had it blocked right away."

 

"As soon as you noticed it was missing or as soon as I took it?" Sherlock nitpicked.

 

Mycroft shot him a pinched look and set the cup down rather too firmly on its saucer. The porcelain clattered expensively.

"You'll pay me back the one-thousand two-hundred and thirty-three pounds and seventeen pence."

 

"The seventeen pence too?"

 

"Sherlock, spare me the thrust and parry. My time is valuable," Mycroft said peevishly and moved the tea set to a side table. "What do you want from me?"

 

Sherlock crossed his legs, leaned back in the chair, rested his left elbow on the armrest, and placed the fingertips of his left hand against his temple.

"He's not reacting," he said dully.

 

"I'm afraid you're going to have to be more specific," Mycroft replied after a short pause.

 

"He reacts, but he doesn't act on it," Sherlock explained, clearly not willing to speak more plainly. Still, it was enough for Mycroft.

 

"You're speaking of your little doctor," he remarked dryly.

 

Sherlock gave up his forced casual posture and crossed his arms over his chest.

"He's not my little doctor," he contradicted petulantly.

 

Mycroft smiled with mild amusement.

"Yes, he is. Otherwise you wouldn't be here. Your defensive posture speaks volumes, by the way. What exactly did you hope to prod him into doing?" he pressed.

 

Sherlock unfolded his arms sullenly and shifted back and forth in his seat.

"Not important," he said curtly. "He keeps saying he's not one of my experiments."

 

A sharp-eyed gaze slid over Sherlock.

"You're having problems with emotions and you're coming to me?" Mycroft finally asked in his smuggest tone.

 

Sherlock's posture stiffened. He raised his chin reluctantly.

"I don't have any problems with emotions because I don't have any!" he blurted out.

 

Mycroft's only reaction was a raised eyebrow. Then his expression shifted, and he looked at Sherlock as if he'd caught him in a lie.

"Methinks he doth protest too much," Mycroft stated with a very nearly taunting smile. "Might it be that you have certain feelings for your little doctor..."

 

"He is not my little doctor!" Sherlock roared.

 

Mycroft sighed and laid his fingertips together.

"Quod erat demonstrandum. And there's the proof."

 

When Sherlock continued to sit silently and avoid his eye, Mycroft continued, "Since you've already gone to the trouble of coming to me, you might as well tell me everything. It's tedious and I haven't the time to pick each fact out of your brain one at a time," he said – relatively kindly, for him. "Not that I couldn't do it..."

 

Sherlock inspected his fingernails in a rare sign of embarrassment.

"I know he wants to kiss me," he said quietly, "but he won't do it. I've tried to seduce him. He still won't do it. HE WON'T DO IT!" Sherlock yelled. He'd ended up talking himself into a tantrum, and pounded his fist against the thick, upholstered arm of the chair.

 

Mycroft blinked and rubbed his right ear.

"There's no reason to get loud. My hearing is still excellent," he remarked reproachfully. "At least it was until just a moment ago."

 

Sherlock ignored the censure and leaned forward in his chair. He looked Mycroft directly in the eye. "What should I do now?" he wanted to know.

 

Mycroft observed his brother closely. He pursed his lips in thought and tapped the corner of his mouth a couple of times with the tip of his index finger.

"Do you want him to..." He purposely didn't complete the question; instead, he observed Sherlock's reaction to that which remained unspoken.

 

The room swam before Sherlock's eyes, and John popped up in his mind's eye. John. Last night. How close they'd been. And yet unreachable. The kiss he'd waited for which had never come. His anger, his disappointment... and all the phone numbers from the bar patrons that he'd shown John out of frustration.

 

What did he want? Did he really want...?

 

Just then, Sherlock realised that – even though he could have pulled anyone at that bar – he didn't want anyone else. He only wanted John. But John didn't want him. No, that wasn't correct. John did want him. But he wasn't doing anything about it. He wasn't doing anything at all!

 

It was enough to drive him mad. He ran a hand through his hair wearily.

 

Mycroft's voice brought him back to the present.

 

"In other words, yes," Mycroft determined with a quiet groan. "I'd better not tell Mummy."

 

"Leave Mummy out of it," Sherlock responded automatically, but the acidic tone which usually accompanied these words was missing.

 

"Does your little doctor know that you want him to do... whatever it is… with you?" Mycroft asked.

 

Sherlock looked up, slightly perplexed.

 

Mycroft regarded him, waiting; only a mild curiosity was visible on his face.

"Don't forget, he doesn't have our intellect," Mycroft lectured in a tone of voice that never failed to drive Sherlock up the wall.

 

Sherlock's gaze became more focussed, and his expression lightened.

"Is that why he always says..."

 

"That he's not an experiment?" Mycroft completed the sentence. "Sherlock – I'm beginning to fear for _your_ intellect," he said in his usual patronising manner. "Although it was never as strong..."

 

Sherlock interrupted his brother brusquely, not even bothering to react to the provocation.

"What do you advise?"

 

"Me? Once again, little brother, you're asking _me_ for advice in emotional matters?" Mycroft chuckled softly and shook his head, both incredulous and amused. "You know what I think about such things. I find that emotions in general are..."

 

"Not an advantage. I know." Sherlock's eyes narrowed to slits. His gaze became icy. "If there were anyone else I could have asked, I would have. Believe me," he said derisively.

 

"Do you really want my advice?" Mycroft said, leaning back comfortably in his chair. His elbows were resting on the armrests, and his fingers were lightly interlocked. He was clearly milking the situation to its fullest. "Since the seduction didn't bear fruit, I suggest another approach. Somewhat old-fashioned... but maybe just what the doctor ordered. Why don't you woo him?"

 

"Excuse me?" Sherlock said, baffled.

 

"Court him," Mycroft clarified calmly.

 

Something like repugnance crossed Sherlock's face.

"Flowers, chocolates, and candlelight dinners?" he cried in horror. "Mycroft! You can't be serious."

 

Mycroft revelled in his brother's reaction, but did take a moment to consider his objections.

"Absolutely, I am completely serious. I think it's a good idea. Your little doctor seems to be the type for that sort of thing."

 

Sherlock's fingers were itching. It would have been an absolute pleasure to wipe that smarmy grin off his brother's face with a few well-placed punches. But he still needed him. And, a very small part of him was thinking of his mother. She was no great fan of physical altercations between her sons. And Mycroft was bound to rat on him. Like always.

 

"You could also simply tell him how you feel," Mycroft suggested.

 

Sherlock decided not to dignify that remark with a response and stood up. He was already at the door when Mycroft spoke again.

 

"Oh, one more thing, Sherlock: the routine with the ice cube at the bar... _tsk tsk tsk_ ... really quite naughty. I had the surveillance tapes copied onto DVD. If you're interested? Or maybe your little doctor?"

 

Sherlock stared at his brother disbelievingly, then felt the heat rising to his face before he began to shake with fury.

 

Without another word, he stormed out of the room and slammed the door shut behind him with a loud bang.

 

Mycroft's cup made another expensive clattering sound.

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

Anger, frustration, and confusion raged through Sherlock as he left the Diogenes Club. What had possessed him to ask Mycroft for advice?

 

Was that it? Love? Was he in love? Had he completely lost all capacity for rational thought? Sherlock's mouth twisted in disgust. He really couldn't afford that, not in his profession. He'd always known that. That was why he'd done his utmost to avoid becoming entangled in any relationship. And it had all worked perfectly until now. The only functional relationship he cultivated was with his work. But then John had come along. Sherlock bit his lower lip. John. Was he – as Mycroft had implied – in love with John?

 

Sherlock made a spontaneous decision; he hailed a cab and had it bring him to St Bart's hospital.

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

"I thought you might want a coffee," Molly said tentatively, setting a mug down on the table in front of Sherlock. The mug had kittens and pink hearts on it. "Black, with three sugars. Just like you like it."

 

She stood indecisively next to Sherlock, who was staring intently into a chromatograph screen and ignoring her.

 

"Thank you..." Sherlock said after a while, neither looking up nor reaching for the mug.

 

Molly knew that tone of voice. The genius was working and didn't want to be disturbed. She still couldn't bring herself to walk away and leave him alone, though. She wouldn't be able to get on with her work anyway, knowing that he was just one room down from her. Separated only by a single wall...

 

"What - what are you looking at there?" she asked, trying to sound brisk and cheerful.

 

Sherlock blinked and finally looked up, irritated.

"What does it look like?" he asked with a complete lack of grace. "Molly, surely you recognise blood when you see it."

 

Molly laughed nervously.

"Oh, yeah... I mean ... of course I recognise blood. I meant more, what are you looking for? Maybe I can..."

 

"Help? No, certainly not," Sherlock declined crossly. "It's my own blood. You'll understand that I don't want anyone else touching it." He smiled briefly, but even Molly could tell that it was fake. He was just trying to appease her so that she'd leave him alone.

 

"Yes, right... but why are you looking at your own..." Molly said, then fell silent when she was hit by a penetrating glare. "Erm, yeah... I understand... I'll be going then... If you need me, I'm ... just ... next door."

 

Sherlock watched her blankly as she disappeared through the door like a small, scared field mouse, finally leaving him alone.

 

Determining hormone levels in blood was difficult enough without being constantly interrupted, in addition to which it wasn't even his specialty.

 

In his head, Sherlock ran through the salient points of a study he'd read a while ago.

 

_Signs of infatuation and their chemical indicators:_

_Euphoria (dopamine)_

_Excitement (adrenaline)_

_Feelings of happiness similar to a chemical high, and a profound sense of well-being (endorphins and cortisol)_

_Sexual arousal (decreased testosterone levels in men)_

_Increased production of pheromones_

_Decreased serotonin levels_

 

In order to ascertain just what his condition was, Sherlock was analysing the levels of dopamine, adrenaline, endorphins, cortisol, testosterone, and serotonin in his blood.

 

Once he had all of the results laid out in front of him, he established that he was well and truly, from a scientific standpoint, in love.

 

If he added in all the other signs like heart rate and respiration (he regretted that he couldn't check whether his pupils had been dilated last night), the result was incontrovertible.

 

He was in love with John.

 

How had that happened? He didn't have feelings! Neither he nor his brother did! Or maybe he wasn't exactly like Mycroft? Maybe he was slightly different? Slightly more like a normal human being? Memories of the Christmas party at Scotland Yard rose unbidden to his consciousness. Something had stirred in him that evening. He'd known that, but he hadn't wanted to acknowledge it because he hadn't thought he had one: a heart. His heart, that was – according to the test results – beating for John.

 

Sherlock had to sit down, as his legs were no longer reliably bearing his weight. He stared emptily at the opposite wall, his mouth hanging slightly open and his mind racing.

 

Was he really in love? Was there no other explanation for all of this? How did one feel when one was in love? Was this actually love that he was feeling? Sherlock didn't know. He didn't have any basis for comparison. Or maybe it was more like... lust? A purely sexual, physical need? A desire that John had awakened in him, and which could therefore only be quenched by John?

 

Sherlock knew that, according to recent studies of brain waves, infatuation caused the greatest activity in the area of the brain responsible for primal appetites. That would allow the conclusion to be drawn that the emotion commonly known as " _love_ " – in the sense of being infatuated – showed a strong correlation to the biological imperative, at least in its biochemical expression.

 

Love or biology?

Love or lust?

Sherlock didn't have an answer, and as long as John continued to be so stubborn, the question would remain unanswered.

 

And that was completely unacceptable. Because the condition he currently found himself in was detrimental to his concentration, and thus to his work, and needed to be terminated as soon as possible. It was just like a few weeks ago, when his recurring erection had had such a negative influence on his mental acuity. It was simply not acceptable.

 

So, what now? Should he follow Mycroft's advice and court John? Flowers? Dates? The mere thought of it made Sherlock's hair stand on end. Never – never in a million years would he ever do anything so cheesy and vulgar. Never. There must be other ways of getting a sufficient body of data to supply him with a reliable conclusion.

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

A few days later, Sherlock's efforts began to bear fruit, or at least, John began to notice them.

 

It was a dreary Sunday afternoon. The sparse snow that had fallen over the last few days was dissolving in the steady, cold drizzle into a grey sludge. Sherlock was lying on the couch, reading the newspaper, and John had just made himself a cup of tea and was coming out back into the living room from the kitchen.

 

"Sherlock, you haven't left any human remains in the fridge in a while," John noted.

 

"That's true," Sherlock agreed, and calmly turned the page of his newspaper. Inside, however, he tensed up with excitement.

 

"Why?" John wanted to know. Was there something like suspicion in his voice?

 

Sherlock decided to play it neutral.

"You complained about it often enough."

 

John laughed disbelievingly.

"You never listened to me before!"

 

"Yes, I did. I always listened," Sherlock contradicted him. "I just didn't care."

 

John sat down at the desk and set his tea cup down.

"And now you care all of a sudden? Why?" he pressed.

 

Yes. Definitely suspicion.

 

Sherlock cast about desperately for a way to dispel his suspicion, as it didn't fit into his plan at all. Why couldn't John just be pleased? It was what he had counted on and was prepared for. He had no idea what to do with suspicion.

 

"You do pay half the rent, after all. It's only logical that you have a say in what the refrigerator is used for," Sherlock replied.

 

"Logical. Aha," John said dryly.

 

"What else do you think is behind it?" Sherlock asked, letting the newspaper sink down into his lap.

 

He was favoured with an appraising look.

"If it weren't you, I'd say you were beginning to develop social competence. Like being considerate," John explained, taking a sip of his tea.

 

The drumming deep inside Sherlock started up hesitantly. Was this it? Was this the _moment_?

 

"And what if it were?" Sherlock asked carefully.

 

To his amazement, John broke out in belly-shaking laughter.

"Then you would have already come to me with a request," he said, still laughing.

 

Puzzlement drowned out the sound of the drums in Sherlock.

 

John grinned. He must have noticed Sherlock's confusion.

"You only act halfway decent when you want something from me," he said matter-of-factly. "We both know that you're only faking politeness to get your way. I assume that you're going to approach me sometime in the next few days with some request or other that you already know I won't agree to."

 

Sherlock didn't say anything, instead picking up his newspaper again. Why did John always have to misunderstand his intentions? He'd probably have to make a more concerted effort.

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

Four days later, John and Sherlock were on the way home from a case. They were taking the train, uncharacteristically, as their client's manor house lay far beyond London's borders. A monkey had been stolen out of his private zoo, and they'd decided to have a look around themselves.

 

Now that the investigation was concluded, they were sitting in the train on their way back to London. Fortunately, they'd managed to snag an empty compartment, as Sherlock was on his mobile regaling Lestrade with his findings at the top of his lungs.

 

"Yes, of course it was the son of my client... Where he is? How should I know? That's the police's job. I've already done _my_ job... What? Not your area? Lestrade! It wasn't just about the monkey that was taken from my client's private zoo... You don't see what that has to do with you? There you are, I knew you wouldn't know what to do with the information... Fine! Then don't come asking for my advice anytime in the next two weeks. You'll see what you're up against! ... Yes! Now listen! The burglary. Two days ago. The one you hit a dead end with and still didn't ask me for help with even though there was a dead security guard... Yes! The jewellery store! ... The broken air conditioner. That was the way... What? Too small for a person? My God! Of course it is too small for a person to fit through! But not for a trained tame monkey!" Sherlock hit the off button on his mobile in exasperation.

 

"The sheer incompetence is incredible," he groaned and closed his eyes.

 

After a short while, John spoke.

"Sherlock? Are you all right? Are you ill?"

 

Sherlock blinked in surprise.

"No, I'm just ... No. I'm not ill. Why do you ask?"

 

"You went shopping," John said bluntly.

 

Sherlock perked up, trying to be unobtrusive about it. So John had noticed.

"Yes," he answered simply.

 

"Without me saying anything," John continued pensively.

 

"Yes," Sherlock said again, holding his breath involuntarily.

 

"And you put all the perishables in the fridge," John went on.

 

"Since I cleared the eyeballs out, there's room for the milk," Sherlock agreed, observing how John took a deep breath, as if he were working up to something. Sherlock wrinkled his forehead. What was going on with John?

 

"Why?" John asked with a searching look.

 

"Why what?" Sherlock returned.

 

"Why are you acting so strange all of a sudden? Something's wrong," John insisted, irritated.

 

Sherlock's lips moved into a pout almost without him having to think about it.

"Why does something have to be wrong just because I do what you want me to?" he wanted to know, disgruntled.

 

"Because you never do what I want," John retorted.

 

Sherlock threw his arms in the air in aggravation.

"I thought you'd be pleased," he cried.

 

"I am... Sherlock..." John shook his head, an odd smile on his face. "If you want me to shoot your brother for you, just tell me. But stop acting so strange. It's creepy."

 

Sherlock felt a sulk coming on. Why were his good intentions always misinterpreted? He sank down deeper into the upholstered seat, crossed his arms over his chest and brooded. What else could he do, to get John to...

 

John cleared his throat, breaking into his gloomy thoughts. Sherlock sat up moodily.

 

"Erm, Sherlock... there's something else..." John hemmed and hawed.

 

Looking away sheepishly.

Shifting back and forth on the seat.

That single red spot on his cheek.

Clearing his throat again.

 

Sherlock's heart was beating in his throat. He sat up straight in his seat, tense with curiosity. Was what he'd been hoping for this whole time going to happen now? Was John going to give in? Was he finally going to admit that...

 

"I have a date tomorrow," John said, and Sherlock felt as if he didn't have a single drop of blood left in his body. He knew that was a biological impossibility, but that's what it felt like. He heard John's voice continuing through the buzzing in his ears. "Her name's Abigail and she's picking me up. So she's going to be in our flat and I'm going to introduce her to you. Please, try to be nice."

 

Sherlock had fallen into a lake as a child. He'd been a good swimmer even then, but he'd never swum in a freezing lake in the middle of winter before. The memory of how the wet, biting cold had crept into every last cell of his body, paralysing him until he was afraid he was going to drown... that was exactly the feeling that came over him at that moment.

Abigail.

How could John do this to him?

 

"Be nice? Why should I?" Sherlock asked with cutting frostiness.

 

John did what he always did when he thought Sherlock was behaving unreasonably. He sighed.

 

"She's a clerical assistant at the Yard. We chatted briefly at the Christmas party, and we ran into each other at the shops a couple of days ago," John reported. "She's very nice and I like her. Just don't scare her off right away like you did with all the others."

 

John liked her? Life for Sherlock no longer had any meaning. John's last remark was the only thing that gave him any sort of hope.

 

"Scared them away? Did I do that?" he asked, mildly pleased.

 

"Yes, you did," John confirmed with a sour look. "Each and every one. And don't act as if you didn't know that perfectly well yourself. Sometimes I really think you do it on purpose."

 

After briefly weighing all the information at his disposal, Sherlock said, "No. It was never my intention... up to _now_."

 

John sighed again, but Sherlock didn't really care. Now he didn't have the time to worry about acting according to John's rulebook. He was already hatching a plan for how to get rid of this _Abigail_ as quickly as possible.

 

"You're going to do it again, aren't you?" John asked with a sense of foreboding.

 

"Do what?" Sherlock asked, momentarily confused, as John had torn him away from his plotting.

 

"Ruin my date," John explained.

 

An ironic smile flitted over Sherlock's lips.

"If you already know it ..." he responded slowly.

 

"Why do I even bother introducing my girlfriends to you?" John burst out, his gestures expressing his weariness, impatience, and lack of understanding.

 

"Yes, why do you?" Sherlock taunted him. "One might come to the conclusion that you WANT me to scare them off."

 

John's mouth opened and closed several times, but not a single sound came out. Sherlock folded his arms again and sank back into his seat, lost in thought.

 

The remainder of the train ride passed in silence.

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

One morning a week later, Sherlock was standing near the Marble Arch, waiting. Finally, a black limousine drove up and stopped next to him. Sherlock opened the back door and got in. The car drove off, moving into the flow of traffic.

 

The limousine had two rows of seats facing each other, so Sherlock was able to stretch out his long legs while conversing with the other occupant of the car face to face.

 

"The courting thing isn't working," Sherlock said accusingly.

 

"No?" Mycroft said with a distinct lack of interest. "You do know that I've had to make a large detour and reschedule several appointments? They're expecting me in Knightsbridge."

 

"Trouble with Bulgaria?" Sherlock retorted with just as little interest, observing with satisfaction Mycroft's annoyance over the fact that Sherlock knew about – or better, deduced - his meeting with the ambassador.

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

**_To be continued..._ **

 

 


	15. an unhealthy attachment

Never Change a Running System

 

Part 15

 

**_An unhealthy attachment_ **

 

* * *

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

"So the courting didn't deliver the desired results?" Mycroft said, returning to the original topic. "Dinner, theatre tickets, none of that worked? Odd. He really seems to be the romantic type. Are you certain that you..." He fixed his brother with a hard look and his mouth twisted in aggravation. "You didn't do any of that, did you?"

 

"If you already know the answer, why do you ask?" Sherlock asked petulantly, avoiding his eye.

 

"How exactly did you court him? In your opinion?" Mycroft sneered.

 

"I disposed of the eyeballs in the refrigerator," Sherlock said grudgingly.

 

"Aha," said Mycroft.

 

"I went shopping," Sherlock added.

 

"Imagine that."

 

"And I tidied the flat," Sherlock went on testily.

 

"Well then."

 

"He thinks it's creepy," Sherlock finished with a crestfallen expression.

 

Mycroft took a deep breath, then said, "Dinner and theatre tickets! Sherlock! Is that really beyond you?"

 

When Sherlock remained silent, Mycroft's eyes drifted over Sherlock. Then he laughed.

"My God! You're afraid he doesn't want you! You're afraid he'll say no!" He took a handkerchief out of his blazer and dabbed at his eyes. "How utterly precious!"

 

It was clear that Sherlock was foaming at the mouth with fury.

"I know that he..." he forced out between gritted teeth.

 

"You're afraid that your deductive abilities have failed you this once," his brother interrupted, still chuckling. "You're afraid you're wrong."

 

"I'm not wrong," Sherlock insisted.

 

Mycroft sniffed one last time in amusement and put his handkerchief away.

"But you might be – and that's what you're afraid of," he asserted calmly.

 

Sherlock still didn't respond. He was staring fixedly out the window of the limousine.

 

Mycroft studied his brother's profile and sighed.

"Oh, little brother... listen to your heart just this once, rather than your brain," he said with uncharacteristic kindness.

 

Sherlock looked up in surprise. Surprise, uncertainty, and anger.

"You're advising me to listen to my heart? You of all people?! You know damn well I don't have a heart."

 

"We both know that isn't true. You've always been somewhat more... sensitive." A smug smile flitted over Mycroft's lips at Sherlock's furious scowl. "Oh, yes, you are. You needn't give me that death glare. I wasn't the one with the teddy bear who..."

 

"Floppy is not the topic of discussion here!" Sherlock hissed. "And don't think that I don't know you had a hand in it!"

 

"Sherlock! For the last time! I did not take away your teddy bear!"

 

"Who else would have!"

 

"The nanny!" Mycroft retorted, at the end of his patience, revealing a secret that had been guarded for decades. "It was the nanny."

 

"Nanny?" Sherlock asked, his eyes flung wide open. "Nanny Phine?! I don't believe it!"

 

"He was dirty, she washed him. He didn't survive," Mycroft reported succinctly.

 

"Floppy was not dirty," Sherlock said quietly.

 

"She didn't dare tell you... you loved that bear so much." Mycroft shook his head to express his disapproval and lack of understanding.

 

"You knew it the entire time. Why didn't you tell me what had happened?" Sherlock accused him.

 

Mycroft rolled his eyes toward the heavens, as if seeking assistance, but returned his gaze to Sherlock almost immediately.

"You had developed an unhealthy attachment to that bear. It weakens the character. I found the incident to be a happy coincidence."

 

"Unhealthy attachment?" Sherlock cried in outrage. "I was five!"

 

Mycroft cleared his throat.

"Well. You do have a heart," he said, returning the conversation to its starting point. "Because if you didn't, you wouldn't be sitting here across from me a second time discussing not only your little doctor but your old teddy bear with me, for God's sake."

 

"He's the best friend I ever had," Sherlock said abruptly. "The only friend I ever had. What if I'm wrong? I don't want to lose his friendship."

 

Mycroft thought at first that Sherlock was still talking about Floppy. When he realised that it was John, he was somewhat relieved. Still, it was becoming more and more unpleasant to see his brother so vulnerable. This candour was very nearly obscene. In comparison, he was quite looking forward to his meeting with the Bulgarian ambassador. It couldn't possibly get any more embarrassing than this conversation. But he'd always felt responsible for his little brother, and that would probably never change. And that meant that he was going to have to help Sherlock.

 

"But you want him to be more than a friend." It was a statement, not a question.

 

Something in Sherlock appeared to stiffen. He raised his chin stoically.

"Not if it means that it would cost me his friendship." Sherlock turned to look out the window again, looking more lost than Mycroft had ever seen him. Even more so than when Floppy had disappeared. "On that first night... when we met ... I was wrong. I thought he was flirting with me, and I turned him down. What if I'm wrong this time too?"

 

"I don't like to say so..." Mycroft began, "but you have never been wrong. If you were certain that he was flirting with you back then, then that's what he was doing. He probably wasn't even aware of it. And if you believe that he wants to be more than just your friend – then you're right about that too. I would venture to say that he is simply waiting for you to approach him. Stop playing these games, brother, and tell him once and for all what you feel for him."

 

Sherlock turned away from the window. His eyes had narrowed.

"I..."

 

"Yes, you do. You feel something for him," Mycroft interrupted him firmly.

 

"I..." Sherlock tried again.

 

"Stop lying to yourself, and spare me the details. Don't thank me. Call Mummy instead. She's been complaining that she never hears from you."

 

"He has a girlfriend again," Sherlock said dully, without reacting to Mycroft's words.

 

"It won't last. It never does," Mycroft responded, bored.

 

To his amazement, Sherlock shook his head and laughed bitterly.

"Not this one. She's tough. I've already tried everything. I haven't been able to disgust her enough to make her leave. She hates me, but she's virtually clinging to John."

 

Every time Sherlock thought of Abigail, the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He'd done his best from the beginning, put his most obnoxious behaviour on display, but nothing had worked. John had had three dates with her now, but at least he hadn't stayed out overnight. That didn't necessarily mean anything, but Sherlock wasn't all that worried yet, because he knew where John kept his condoms and he counted them every day. None were missing yet. He could count on John not using anyone else's condoms. He was fairly neurotic about that, and only ever used his own.

 

The memory of last night ran through Sherlock's head. He had directed a particularly well-chosen insult in Abigail's direction – one he'd been working on all day and that had literally made her speechless. Even John's mouth had hung open.

 

"He didn't mean it like that, sweetheart," John had said, once he had been able to move his mouth again. "You didn't mean it like that," he had then hissed at Sherlock.

 

"I certainly did!" Sherlock had insisted, challenge in his tone. Behind John's back, Abigail had sent him a patented death glare. He had merely responded with a smirk.

 

But then she'd unpacked her own fake laugh and patted John playfully on the shoulder.

"Just let it be, John," she'd said. "They broke the mould when they made Sherlock."

 

The woman must be made of Teflon. Nothing stuck to her. She'd clearly resolved to dig her claws into John and not let go – no matter what stood in her way. Sherlock didn't know what he was supposed to do any more. He'd tried everything short of murder.

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

Sherlock was sitting in his armchair, his legs pulled up with his arms wrapped around them. His chin was resting on his knees, and he was brooding gloomily.

 

Valentine's Day. Sherlock snorted derisively.

 

John had left for his date with Abigail half an hour ago, leaving him alone in the flat. Several days had passed since he'd talked to Mycroft, but Sherlock still hadn't worked up the courage to confess to John. And now it might be too late. John was gone. Wearing his _fuck-me shoes_ and his _fuck-me aftershave_ and carrying two condoms in his pocket. Sherlock hunkered down even closer in his chair and wallowed.

 

He'd never wanted to tie himself down to someone because he'd worried it would have a negative effect on his work. He'd never thought that _not_ tying himself to someone would have exactly the same effect. He could barely sleep, he didn't want to eat, and not even masturbating interested him anymore. Sherlock knew exactly why that was. Something was missing. Lonely pleasure was no pleasure at all, for exactly that reason: it felt lonely. Sherlock rubbed his hands over his face, exhausted.

 

The television had been running the whole time, but Sherlock hadn't been paying any attention to it. A music programme had started up in the background without him taking any notice. _The 100 Most Beautiful Love Songs_ – or something equally inane. It was Valentine's Day, after all. All of a sudden, Sherlock caught some strangely familiar lyrics. He turned to the screen, his mind now quite alert.

 

_"Oh, doctor, doctor, can't you see I'm burning, burning..."_

 

A bitter laugh scratched its way out of Sherlock's throat. Doctor John Watson – much more experienced in the ways of love than he was. John ... Why hadn't he noticed that Sherlock was burning for him? How much clearer did he need to get? Did he really need to say it to his face?

 

_"Oh, doctor, doctor, is this love I'm feeling?"_

 

Was what he felt for John really love? How would he know? He'd never been in love before, and if love felt as awful as what was going on in him, he certainly hadn't missed much, and would rather have done without it entirely. But still... was he in love?

 

Sherlock thought abruptly of his own maxim _: “Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.”_

 

Sherlock went through everything in his mind one more time. Every gesture, every word, every movement, eliminating all of the impossibilities, until only the truth remained.

 

He was in love with John Watson.

 

It was about time for him to stop deluding himself.

 

_“Please don't go, no please don't go,  
'Cause I don't want to stay here on my own.”_

 

He briefly entertained the possibility that John actually did want Abigail, and whether she might actually be better for him than Sherlock was. But when Sherlock wanted something, he took it. Abstinence had never been one of his strong points. The role of the noble, forsworn lover was not one he was ready to play.

 

He loved John. And he was going to get him back.

 

 _"Fever, breathe your love on me,_  
Take away my name.  
Fever, lay your hands on me,  
Never be the same.  
Come with me and make believe,  
We can travel to eternity.”

 

The last few bars of the song echoed in Sherlock's head as he put on his coat a few minutes later and set off for the restaurant John had reserved a table at. The drums inside him were vibrating in time with his footsteps as he left the house.

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

John had been looking forward to this evening, having reason to believe he and Abigail would become more intimate than the few chaste kisses they'd limited themselves to so far. For one thing, it was their fourth date, and for another, it was Valentine's Day.

 

He was also happy to be spending an evening without Sherlock, who had been more difficult than ever the past few days. If John didn't know better, he might have thought Sherlock was jealous of his new girlfriend.

 

But it was probably just another one of his well-known, sudden mood swings. Just as he'd suddenly stopped goading John into a state of permanent sexual arousal, he would also stop insulting Abigail eventually. John was pretty sure of that, anyway; he'd known Sherlock long enough. Nothing ever lasted long with him. He'd get bored of it pretty soon.

 

On the other hand, John had to admit that Sherlock in seductive mode had been a difficult test for him and his willpower. He'd had to pull the emergency brake more than once in order to stop himself from throwing himself at his friend. He'd succeeded, though, in refraining from doing anything he'd regret later by reminding himself every time of Sherlock's purely scientific motivation.

 

Abigail was like a gift from the gods, sent just in the nick of time. It was really about time for him to go out with a woman again. He couldn't just sit around the flat all day brooding over his unfortunate desires regarding his best friend. Especially as it had rarely stopped at brooding... His thoughts had often drifted off into some ridiculous daydream that ended with him either taking a cold shower or getting himself off... being forced to get himself off, rather. The thing with the ice cube had been eroticism personified.

 

First of all, the whole situation couldn't be healthy, and second, it couldn't go on like that. Sherlock was only interested in doing an experiment, and John wanted ... something else. He didn't even want to allow his desires to take shape in his own mind, as he'd realised that the fact that they would always remain unfulfilled only depressed him after a while. He'd decided to put Sherlock behind him once and for all – at least emotionally. It wasn't doing him any good, and it wasn't getting him anywhere. That was why Doctor Watson had prescribed himself a new girlfriend, and the very next day Abigail had crossed his path. And although Sherlock had been horrid to her, she was still here. John admired her for that fact alone.

 

John raised his champagne glass and toasted her with a smile. She returned the smile, raising her glass as well to clink it to his. The thought of the bill made John break out in a cold sweat, but one couldn't afford to be stingy when it came to a mating ritual.

Mating ritual... Oh God! He was already thinking like Sherlock!

He'd chosen the restaurant with great care. It wasn't so elegant that it was completely unaffordable, but it was elegant enough – the waiters were wearing nicer suits than half of the male clientele. Also it wasn't one of those cosy little places that screamed _'I'm paying for dinner so you'd better blow me afterwards'_. No, that wasn't John's style at all. The dining room was big and well illuminated – the light flattered the female guests, but you could still read the menu.

 

She seemed to be pleased with the selection, as she was in a relaxed mood and her hand had reached for his quite often now.

 

The waiter was just clearing away the dishes from the appetisers when Abigail's smile dissolved and she groaned, "Oh, no..."

 

"What is it?" John asked in concern. Had the clams not been good?

 

"Look who's here," Abigail said with obvious distaste, nodding toward the door.

 

John, who was sitting with his back to the door, had to turn around, but then he saw the familiar, slender form of his friend looking around. It was a very theatrical entrance. The long, open coat, still swirling gently around his legs from his last step, the turned-up collar, the blue scarf, the cheeks turned rosy from the cold wind...

 

"I can't believe..." John groaned and stood up. "Sherlock!" he called, a bit too loud, drawing the attention not only to his friend but also to himself. Several guests turned toward them.

 

"What's he doing here?" Abigail hissed. "Tonight of all nights. Can't he just for _once_..."

 

"I'll take care of it," John said decisively, feeling rather like the man in charge.

 

Sherlock, in the meantime, had arrived at their table. Abigail was still seated, while John stood next to her, his eyes flashing.

 

"John," Sherlock said simply, regarding him with a strange expression.

 

"Sherlock – What in the world are you doing here?" John hissed.

 

Sherlock ignored the question.

"Why?" he asked instead, his eyes appearing just a bit too large and gleaming.

 

John wondered briefly whether Sherlock had taken some illicit substance, and mentally ran through which of the nearest hospitals might still be open, and where the staff was quite thorough, but still gentle, when it came to pumping stomachs.

  
"Why what?" John returned the question.

 

"Why haven't you kissed me yet?!" Sherlock demanded, his voice louder than necessary.

 

John noticed out of the corner of his eye that the guests at the nearby tables had stopped eating and were watching the exchange with their mouths agape.

"Sherlock!" John cried, both angry and stunned.

 

"What are you talking about?" Abigail interjected shrilly. " _John_! Did he just say..."

 

Sherlock looked past John to Abigail. His gaze became cold and hard.

"No one asked for your opinion, _Annabelle_ ," he said sharply, causing Abigail to gasp.

 

"John!" she screeched in a tone of voice that clearly said _'Do something!'_

 

"Her name is Abigail, as you very well know!" John snapped at Sherlock.

 

Sherlock fixed his gaze on John again. Piercing... penetrating... determined. Determined? John blinked and looked again. Yes, determined. Something about that determination sent shivers down John's spine, and quietly ... very quietly ... the sparkling-doleful sound of the bassoon returned.

 

"Irrelevant," Sherlock said brusquely. "Are you going to answer my question or not?"

 

Jesus... those eyes... John felt as if he had to find something to hold onto so as not to be sucked in. How could he ever have thought Sherlock's eyes were grey? Or had they just now taken on that milky, greenish-blue pastel shade? Like a lake in a forest, its depths still cloudy after a night-time thunderstorm, now lying placid in the light of the sun. John shook his head briskly in an attempt to clear his thoughts.

 

"Maybe because I don't want to?! Have you thought of that with your brilliant brain?!" he shot at Sherlock.

 

"Yes, I've already considered that," Sherlock replied fiercely. "And I've come to the conclusion that you do want to, but simply aren't acting on it. And I want to know _why_ , once and for all."

 

"Sherlock – that's enough!" John yelled. Their argument had drawn the attention of the entire restaurant, but John couldn't worry about everything.

 

John watched, nonplussed, as Sherlock quieted immediately. He was very quiet. Too quiet. Yet his hands were shaking. Likely no one else would have noticed, but John knew him too well. Sherlock clenched his hands into fists, just for a moment, and bit his lips together. His wind-reddened cheeks had turned pale, but his eyes seemed to be on fire. Blazing.

 

"Damn it!" he cursed suddenly and fervently. "I hate it when Mycroft's right!"

 

Before John could react, Sherlock had grabbed hold of John's face with both hands in a single smooth movement, tilted it slightly upwards, bent down and kissed him.

 

In taking the first step, Sherlock had taken not only John's face, but his heart in his hands as well. He hoped that the gesture would tell John everything that he would never be able to express in words. When his lips touched John's, a thousand thoughts raced through his mind at the speed of light; yet at the same time, his mind felt completely empty. And over the sound of the blood rushing in his ears, he heard – no, he _felt_ those infernal drums. In his head, in his heart, throughout his entire body. He was shaking, he knew he was shaking, but he didn't know why. No, he did know. Of course he knew. He was scared ... He was so scared that he was making a complete and utter fool out of himself...

 

In that first moment, John was so shocked that his head was filled with nothing but sheer horror. He could only think about what a scene they were making in front of the other diners, the waiters, and last but not least Abigail. But then everything narrowed down and focussed on the feeling of Sherlock's lips, so soft and gentle and trembling against his mouth, and he forgot everything around them. Before he knew what he was doing, he flung his arms around Sherlock and returned the kiss.

 

When Sherlock realised that John was kissing him back and wrapping his arms around him, pulling him closer, his body began to shake. A relief, the likes of which he had never before experienced, flooded through him. A sob lodged itself in his throat, but he forced it down. Although his heart was beating like crazy, the drums fell silent and were replaced by the wistful sound of a saxophone, speaking of future promises. His hands buried themselves in John's hair, his lips parted, and their tongues met for a brief, electric, inflaming moment.

 

Abigail's howl of indignation tore Sherlock and John out of their trance.

"JOHN!"

 

John ended the kiss upon hearing her cry, but he kept his eyes locked on Sherlock's.

"Sherlock, if this is one of your sick jokes, if this is just another one of your twisted experiments... I swear – I will kill you with my bare hands. And don't think I won’t be capable to do it."

 

At the sound of John's throaty voice, a shiver ran down Sherlock's spine.

"I have never been more serious in my entire life," he said quietly, noting with surprise that his own voice was just as deep, dark, and breathless as John's. "And it hasn't been an experiment for a while now. Maybe it never was..."

 

"JOHN!" Abigail screeched again, and Sherlock winced briefly in pain.

 

His hands were holding John's shoulders firmly, and without taking his eyes off him, he said, " _Agnes_ , your date with John is hereby over, and he will not be taking you home."

 

A look of comical despair came into John's eyes.

"Sherlock... her name's Abigail ... and ... you can't just..." he protested, his voice wavering.

 

Sherlock sighed in annoyance.

"Fine..." He took a bank note out of the pocket of his coat. " _Angela_ – here are twenty pounds. Take a taxi."

 

"Sherlock, the bill... I still have to pay the bill," John said with an amused chuckle.

 

"Fine then, forty pounds." Sherlock pulled out another note and tossed it onto the table without looking at it. "Shall we go?" he whispered to John.

 

"Yeah," he answered, just as softly. "Let's go."

 

Sherlock fetched John's jacket from the coat rack and handed it to him so that he could put it on. Then Sherlock held out his hand, and John took it quite naturally and held it.

 

As Sherlock and John left the restaurant hand in hand, you could have heard a pin drop. No one moved until the door closed behind them. Only then did the room fill with murmurs and whispers, making it sound like the bustling buzzing of a bee hive.

 

"People will talk," Sherlock pointed out as they walked down the street, still holding hands.

 

John sighed softly.

"Yeah, they will... if they aren't already." Then he stopped, put a hand on the back of Sherlock's neck, pulled him down, and kissed him quickly and firmly on the mouth. "But now at least they have a reason."

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

**_To be continued..._ **

 

* * *

 

 

**1)      A picture of the lake in the forest that John may have had in mind...**

<http://www.liegerad-elmshorn.de/action/moezensee/06moezener_see_blaualgen.jpg>

 

**2)      Here is a nice picture of Mr Cumberbatch in which you can see his eye colour really well:**

<http://27.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lonpi3Ce221qdojd4o1_r1_500.jpg>

 

 

**3)      And now I have a little note about the musical metaphors. I did have something in mind with it!**

 

John hears a violin at the beginning – of course... Sherlock plays the violin. But then the bassoon joins in... The bassoon comes right at the moment when John's feelings for Sherlock become more serious and deeper and go beyond what's on the surface. A bassoon sounds warm, friendly, comforting. But also a bit doleful... That's supposed to symbolise the intimacy that John and Sherlock share, but also the slight melancholy that nothing will ever come of it.

 

Sherlock hears drums... it's supposed to represent something pagan or carnal. A side of Sherlock that he never shows and keeps suppressed, but has inside him like everyone else. It's also supposed to express something like stability and rhythm. Steady and reliable. Something that everything else builds on. But at the same time unsettling and sensual – not as high-minded and sophisticated as his violin.

 

Okay. Now the saxophone. When it was invented, the saxophone was usually used in military bands. Any questions? It's also a fairly cosmopolitan instrument. Urbane. Modern. Versatile. Surprising. Romance, swing, classical, military, jazz - you can play anything with a saxophone. A saxophone goes along with everything. Just like John.

 

Do you want to hear a sample of saxophone music? Sure! And it couldn't be anything else but the song "Baker Street" by Gerry Rafferty, with a classic saxophone solo played by Raphael Ravenscroft. It starts out just a bit wistful, but soon works up to exultant highs. It always comes across as very, very sensual to me. (The text doesn't exactly fit the situation in the story, but a few of the lines are quite appropriate.) You can watch and listen on Myvideo:

  
<http://www.myvideo.de/watch/7996641/Gerry_Rafferty_Baker_Street>

 

 

**4)      The song that Sherlock hears on the telly is one of my all-time favourites. "Doctor, Doctor" by the Thompson Twins. The full text is below, and if anyone wants to see the video (it's nothing special though), you can see it on Myvideo:**

  
**<http://www.myvideo.de/watch/5281521/Thompson_Twins_Doctor_Doctor>**

  
_I saw you there, just standing there_  
And I thought I was only dreaming yeah  
I kissed you then, then once again  
You said you would come and dance with me  
Dance with me across the sea  
And we could feel the motion of a thousand dreams  
(chorus)  
Oh, Doctor, doctor, can't you see I'm burning, burning  
Oh, Doctor, doctor, is this love I'm feeling?  
Ships at night give such delight  
We all leave before the morning light  
Please don't go no please don't go  
Cause I don't want to stay here on my own  
(REPEAT CHORUS x 2)  
Fever breathe your love on me (breathe your love)  
Take away my name (take away)  
Fever lay your hands on me (breathe your love)  
Never be the same  
(REPEAT CHORUS x 2)  
Come with me and make believe  
We can travel to eternity


	16. pineapple diet

Never Change a Running System

 

Part 16

 

**_ pineapple diet _ **

 

 

 

A while later, Sherlock and John were walking silently through London's night-time streets. They had just passed Paddington Street Gardens – a public park and short-cut to Baker Street – when John suddenly felt a giggle rising up in his throat.

 

"Poor Abigail," he said, biting his lips to suppress the giggle. How could he consider himself a bastard, and at the same time not give a shit because he felt like he was walking on cloud nine? "I'm a terrible person," he stated, shaking his head at himself because that had come out as if it didn't concern him in the least.

 

"Pff," Sherlock scoffed. "She hated me."

 

He couldn't keep the giggle in any more.

"You really gave her plenty of reasons to," John said, his voice full of amusement.

 

"I was..." Sherlock started, then broke off.

 

John's ears perked up and he looked up at Sherlock. Sherlock was staring straight ahead, but there was something different about his expression. He looked a little tense.

"You were what?" John asked.

 

"Nothing," Sherlock pressed out, trying to appear nonchalant, but just at that moment a light bulb went off for John.

"Oh...you... you were... Oh! You were jealous!" he cried. Could it be? Yes, it must be, and John succeeded in feeling a mixture of embarrassment, flattery, and amusement.

 

"Possibly," Sherlock admitted reluctantly, avoiding John's eye.

 

John considered that it must be embarrassing for Sherlock to admit something like that. Were the cheeks peeking out over the turned-up collar just a little bit redder than could be accounted for by the cold night air?

 

John blurted out, "I'm sorry."

 

An apology seemed appropriate. If Sherlock really was jealous, then John must have unknowingly hurt him quite a bit by going on all those dates. He never would have thought that Sherlock was the type of man to get jealous. On the other hand, when he considered the possibility of Sherlock carrying out his sexual experiments on someone else... A red cloud lurked at the edges of his vision. That would have been more than a bit not good! That _'someone'_ would have done better to make themselves scarce before John got his hands on them. Apparently they were both the jealous type.

 

John looked up at Sherlock again, as if to reassure himself that it was really Sherlock whom he was walking hand in hand with through London.

 

"I believe I can deign to accept your apology," Sherlock said casually, but John noticed the small smile and the quiet relief that filtered out through the dry words. He squeezed his hand just a bit tighter and was rewarded with a brief, uncharacteristically gentle look.

 

John felt an idiotic grin spread across his face. He knew from experience that that grin could only mean one thing: he was ridiculously happy. He wondered whether Sherlock knew what his more or less open display of affection was doing to John. Normally, the answer would be yes – but John wasn't sure whether this night counted as normal any more. He wondered whether Sherlock – like him - was having difficulty keeping his thoughts in order. John wondered what love would do to this brilliant man and his brain, and he realised that he was chomping at the bit to find out first-hand, to experience it, to enjoy it.

 

"Maybe we should tell some people," John considered out loud.

 

"Tell them what?" Sherlock asked, puzzled.

 

"You know, that we... we..." John was suddenly at a loss for words. What were they? Boyfriends? Lovers? Partners? A couple? Were they in a relationship now? He looked to Sherlock for help.

 

"That we belong together?" Sherlock completed the sentence as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and John had to close his eyes for a moment out of sheer happiness. Yes, that was it. They belonged together. This wasn't some boring, run-of-the-mill relationship, nothing that could be compartmentalised. They belonged together. Full stop.

 

Sherlock huffed out a laugh.

"Believe me, most of them already know it," he went on, finishing his thought. "Probably before we did..."

 

"All right," John said lightly, in an attempt to appear as nonchalant as Sherlock about the whole thing. "That you're off the market then."

 

John was rather surprised at Sherlock's reaction to that.

"Me?" Sherlock asked, bewildered, and actually stopped in his tracks.

 

"Yes, you. But I'll talk to Molly. Just so we're clear! You'd only send her into hysterics. And maybe... your brother?" John asked. "Some time... when it becomes unavoidable?"

 

"Mycroft already knows," Sherlock replied dully. "And Molly thinks I take my coffee with three sugars. Why is it so difficult to remember that I only take two sugars? Who could drink something that sweet? Three sugars?"

 

John's head was spinning from Sherlock's chatter, but he was finally able to separate the salient information from the detritus.

"Don't distract me. How does Mycroft know?" he asked firmly.

 

"From me," Sherlock admitted in a small voice.

 

John ran his free hand through his hair.

"From... right. No details until he starts being annoying." John forced himself to remain calm. Jesus Christ! Worst case scenario. Control freak and master at sticking his nose in other people's business, Mycroft Holmes, knew that John and his little brother... Not good. Not good at all. Completely not good! John had hoped to put this very special announcement off for a while, but there wasn't anything he could do about it now. John took one last deep breath. "All right," he finally said.

 

"All right." Sherlock nodded. "Not until he starts being annoying." Then he thought of something else. "And Mrs Hudson. She'll be pleased to know we won't need the second bedroom any more, and that it will be loud every night from now on."

 

"Every night?" John heard himself ask, slightly breathless.

 

Sherlock raised one eyebrow, and John's heart tried to do a backflip at the sight of the dark smile that flitted across Sherlock's lips.

"Any objections?" Sherlock asked in that deep voice that sounded like liquid black velvet.

 

John's throat went dry, his convulsive swallow bringing no relief.

"Not really..." he whispered, his voice raw.

 

" _I'm_ off the market?" Sherlock then asked with mock surprise. Another giggle bubbled up in John.

 

"That's too much for you, is it?" was his only reply, grinning at Sherlock's lack of understanding.

 

"I don't understand how you can go from _'People will talk now'_ to _'We have to tell everyone'_ , and to be in a hurry over it, no less," Sherlock explained his momentary slow-mindedness.

 

John had the feeling that he was going to have to have his grin surgically removed. He simply couldn't turn it off. On the other hand, it was a rare pleasure to see the genius so clueless and naive.

"I'd much rather... I don't know ... tattoo it on your forehead: _hands off! Mine_!" he admitted.

 

Sherlock sent him a look of shock and horror.

"My God! Why? You're the one with the wild dating past, not me." He frowned.

 

"Because you're... so incredible," John confessed. "So incredibly clever and good-looking and... and that makes me ask, _Why me_?"

 

"What?" Sherlock exclaimed incredulously.

 

"Why me?" John repeated. "Why me, of all people? You said it yourself – you could have anyone. Like that." He snapped his fingers to illustrate.

 

Sherlock's eyes narrowed in a sign of extreme concentration, but his expression remained a bit confused.

"You think you're too..."

 

"What if..." John interrupted, but couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence at first. It hurt to even consider the possibility, but what was he, compared to Sherlock? "If someone comes along who's ... younger. Taller, better looking, richer, cleverer, simply… better..." John breathed firmly through his nose, trying not to appear affected. But the thought gnawed at him – he couldn't help it.

 

Sherlock's face relaxed, strangely enough.

"No one is better for me than you," he said soberly. "John, I love you. And that's not going to change."

 

John was overcome by the feeling that he'd died and gone to heaven. He had to blink hard several times in order to understand what he'd just heard. Had Sherlock really said...

"Wow... I... I... wow," John stammered, shaking his head to unstick his brain. "I think I just stepped out for a moment. That... Can you say that again?" he settled on asking.

 

"No. Why should I?" Sherlock replied curtly, and a bit put off. "It's cheesy and tasteless and... you know it's true. Why must I constantly repeat the obvious?"

 

The grin slipped back onto John's face. Jesus, Sherlock must think he was the biggest idiot on the face of the earth. But he simply couldn't help it. Seeing Sherlock squirming in embarrassment was just too delicious. This entire evening was turning into one big revelation for John.

"Because it's nice to have confirmation of it once in a while?" John suggested with a hint of irony.

 

"You'll never have reason to doubt it," Sherlock said, again in that deep voice that made John's knees go weak. Before he knew what was happening, Sherlock had bent down and kissed him gently but emphatically.

 

"Jesus... Christ... Will... Are you going to do that a lot?" John asked when he'd regained control over most of his faculties.

 

Sherlock gave him a knowing smile. Still, he asked with a look of mischievous innocence, "Whatever do you mean, John?"

 

"Act like a bastard and then come up with something out of nowhere that sounds like the State of the Nation address but is so romantic that it takes my breath away? That! Are you going to be doing that a lot? Because if so, we're going to need an oxygen tent at home," John explained, suffering something of an inferiority complex with regards to Sherlock at the moment.

 

"I've found I'm rather in favour of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation myself," Sherlock said, still smiling. Then he took John's face in his hands, just as he had at the restaurant, and kissed him again.

 

There was something electric in the way Sherlock kissed. He was still a bit awkward, but very enthusiastic and focussed. For John, it was unexpectedly stimulating to be the centre of all that attention and focus. His fingers had buried themselves in the lapels of Sherlock's coat, and he pulled him in harder, closer to himself. His tongue slid carefully over Sherlock's incredible lips, which parted for him without hesitation, sending prickles of arousal shooting through John's entire body. The implicitness of the trust, the somehow naive desire, this impossible man who wasn't even looking for hidden motives for once, but taking whatever John gave him...

 

Then their tongues met, Sherlock moaned into the kiss, and John felt the arousal prickling through him, shoot down into his groin. John tasted, explored, investigated, and enjoyed Sherlock's mouth with that devilish tongue threatening to drive him mad. Whereas John had thought Sherlock was an inexperienced kisser just a few minutes ago, he now had to acknowledge that he was an enthusiastic and very eager learner.

 

When Sherlock began to suck lightly on John's tongue, John broke the kiss off. He had to. Any more of that and it would have been over for him right then and there. In the middle of London. In the middle of the night. In the middle of February and in the middle of a public garden.

 

"I... I don't think I'm gay," John panted breathlessly, his fingers still clutching Sherlock's lapels.

 

Sherlock's hands had still been framing his cheeks, but now they wandered down over his shoulders, over his back...

 

"It's a bit late for you to be realising that," Sherlock noted, both amused and distinctly unimpressed. He began to cover John's neck and throat with tiny, hungry kisses.

 

"No, I mean..." John bit down on his lips to suppress a moan. "I may be bisexual, or..." He couldn't suppress the gasp any longer. How did Sherlock know exactly how sensitive his earlobes were? Oh, right – it was Sherlock. "Or maybe just Sherlock-sexual," John finished his ramblings, his voice raw. He felt Sherlock's lips spread into a smile against his neck.

 

"Sherlock-sexual. I like that," he growled into his ear, causing John to shudder.

 

"Yes, I thought that might inflate your oversized ego just a bit more," John teased.

 

"As long as we're on the topic..." Sherlock whispered as he licked John's ear in a way that had no right being so lewd. He then forced him off the path, across the lawn, and pressed him up against a tree with the full length of his body.

 

Both men felt the other's erection through their clothing, causing a dual groan to pierce the silence of the park.

 

"Sherlock!" John cried in shock, once he'd recovered halfway from Sherlock's steamrolling maneouvre and felt a thigh pressing insistently between his legs. "It's... February and we're in the middle of London and it's cold..." To his further horror, John felt cold fingers at the flies of his trousers. "We... we should wait until we're home!"

 

"Yes, we definitely should," Sherlock agreed, unfazed, and fell to his knees before John in a single, fluid motion. Before John knew what was happening, he felt Sherlock's hot lips on his stiff member.

 

Reflexively, John covered his face with his hands, as if by doing so he could undo everything that was happening. But by removing any visual input, his remaining senses were only heightened.

 

The soft yet clearly audible humming and moaning that was coming from Sherlock... the cold hands grasping his hips... the warm lips surrounding his erection, and the infernal tongue licking over the tip of his engorged cock, as if they couldn't get enough.

 

The fear of discovery inflamed John's fantasy, spurring his arousal in a manner he'd never thought possible. He slowly lowered his hands from his face. Sherlock Holmes was giving him a blow job in a public park, as if he'd been born to it. He had to see this. He had to see it to believe it, in order to remember it later.

 

His eyes fell to the dark, curly head bobbing rhythmically up and down between his spread legs, and a fresh wave of ecstasy rolled through his body. John stroked Sherlock's hair with his hand, causing Sherlock to look up at him.

 

"Sherlock! Oh... God... Jesus!" A lascivious groan fought its way out of John's throat.

 

Sherlock's eyelids were half closed, his mouth gliding slowly over John's erection, sucking briefly on the head before it slipped out from between his lips. His eyes were fixed on John's, shameless, dark, and filled with such thrilling certitude that John fell speechless. He licked over his dry lips, which Sherlock apparently took as a request to use his tongue again. Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered, finally falling shut as his tongue and his lips continued to fondle John.

 

John's fingers twisted themselves into Sherlock's curls as if they were the only thing keeping him upright.

 

"Oh... yeah. Yes. Sherlock, fuck... Mmm... No... don't... don't stop... Do... yeah... oh, yeah...."

 

John's hips struggled against Sherlock's steel grip, and he thrust both hands deep into Sherlock's hair. His orgasm came more quickly than he'd thought it would, given the circumstances, and almost surprised him when it did happen. The unsettling intensity of the climax was just as surprising. And the deeper meaning of the fact that he still felt Sherlock's mouth on his slowly deflating manhood sent a new shudder of arousal down between his legs.

 

John leaned back against the tree, exhausted, and extricated his fingers from Sherlock's hair.

 

"Sherlock..." John whispered, but he didn't get any further, as Sherlock stood up as soon as he released his grip.

 

His arms wrapped themselves around John, holding him close in an embrace that was nearly suffocating. His face was buried in the angle of John's neck, his burning hot body pressed against John.

 

"Hold me, John," he whispered feverishly. "Hold me tight."

 

John hugged him, held him close, kissed his temple and moaned softly when he felt the pressure of Sherlock's hot, hard erection against his lower body.

 

"Jesus... Sherlock..." he moaned hoarsely, and felt a shiver run through Sherlock's body.

 

A sigh... long and slow... sensual... "Jooohn..."

 

Sherlock rubbed insistently against John, and John pressed back against him. Close... closer... then – a groan, one last quake, and another sigh. Sated, exhausted, almost relieved.

 

Sherlock took a step back from John, pulling himself up to his full height. His lips were darker than usual, and when John reminded himself what the cause of the increased blood flow was, a new, faint tingling manifested itself in his belly.

 

John was fixed by a sly look.

"Your pineapple diet starts tomorrow," Sherlock said with a wink.

 

"You're completely insane, you know that?" John groaned.

 

"Who am I to contradict my doctor?" Sherlock replied. He already appeared to have recovered and looked quite fresh. "And now let's go home so you can fuck me through the mattress. I've waited quite long enough already," he declared impulsively and grabbed John's hand to pull him along.

 

"Jesus, Sherlock..." John said, and pulled his hand away so he could do up his trousers. "I don't think I'll be that fast to..."

 

Sherlock frowned, but then he had an idea.

"I have a fantastic cock ring in my bedside table. It should fit you."

 

He reached for John's hand again, but again it was pulled away.

 

"Sherlock. Wait." John was somewhat uneasy about it, but there was something he had to clear up before things went any further than they already had.

 

"Problem?" Sherlock snapped. "It's been disinfected."

 

"Yeah. No." John scratched his head. How could he formulate his concern without hurting or insulting Sherlock? "That's... I mean... Sherlock. What is this? Some porn marathon?" he finally asked. "Sherlock... I don't want to be some substitute for your sex toys. I know it would be more practical since I don't need batteries..." he joked in an attempted to lighten things up. "But... what you've been doing the past few weeks – the frequency... I'm not going to be your drug of choice as well as an enabler for your sex addiction," he stated firmly.

 

"You think I'm a sex addict?" Sherlock regarded him with his head cocked to one side.

 

"Sherlock, the frequency with which you've..."

 

"John, I only did it that much ... and tried everything out... because... because I wanted to feel it again. I wanted to recapture... that feeling of... completion." A very nearly manic gleam passed over Sherlock's face, and John shivered – and not just because of the cold night air.

 

"Yeah, Sherlock, I know..."

 

"No, John. Let me finish." Sherlock shook his head forcefully. "That feeling of completion... I've never achieved it again. Nothing's worked. No matter what I've done, no matter how I've done it... Yes, many of the orgasms were spectacular, but there was always something missing. _You_ were missing. It was never as perfect as it was that night when you held me in your arms for the first time. When you were with me. When you touched me. When you weren't there... there was a vast emptiness inside me... an emptiness I didn't understand myself."

 

Since Sherlock was speaking in his usual staccato tempo, John's head spun for a moment; but then he understood what Sherlock was telling him, what he had revealed to him, and a shaky laugh escaped his lips.

 

"There," he said, and Sherlock studied him, confused. "You're doing it again." John went up on tip-toes and kissed Sherlock on his gently parted lips. He felt a little ridiculous, but Sherlock's words had touched him, moved him, and – if he was honest with himself – aroused him more than just a bit. "If anyone had told me that Sherlock Holmes is an incurable romantic..."

 

There was a disdainful scoffing sound.

"I'm afraid that of the seven billion people in the world, you're the only one who thinks I'm a romantic. I've simply stated the facts."

 

"All right... then I'm probably the only person who finds the facts – as presented by you – so bloody sexy." John licked his lips. "So... what was that about a cock ring?"

 

A mischievous smile flickered across Sherlock's face for a fraction of a second.

"It's waiting at home for you," he said simply, appearing rather smug.

 

"Good," John said hoarsely, and swallowed over a dry throat. If he thought about that cock ring any longer, he wouldn't be needing it. "But maybe we should... get some condoms?" he suggested, wondering why – after all that had already happened that evening – he was feeling that tell-tale heat in his cheeks again.

 

"You have two in your pocket, and there are three more at home," Sherlock replied matter-of-factly.

 

"How? Okay... forget I asked that," John rushed to assure him. He licked his lips again. "Still," he went on firmly. "We should really..."

 

"You don't think they'll be enough?" Sherlock asked – purely out of academic curiosity.

 

John groaned softly. Why was Sherlock so sexy when he was in scientist mode?

 

"When we get home, I don't want to have to go up to my room first," John said quietly, but emphatically. "And we're not just talking about tonight. What about tomorrow morning?" He paused to take a breath. "I've been waiting a pretty long time for this too, you know."

 

A pleased smile came to Sherlock's lips.

"John Watson, you are full of surprises. But we don't need condoms anyway. Here." With a dramatic gesture, he reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. He handed it to John, who skimmed over it.

 

"Are these..." John frowned, bemused.

 

"My blood tests. Results. Arrived yesterday. Negative," Sherlock clarified briefly. "Your last blood test was two weeks ago and was likewise negative. We can do whatever we want. Without anything standing between us." The last few words were murmured into John's ear in that voice that was a major third lower than usual, and which provoked some very interesting sensations in John.

 

"Yes, fine, but..."

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, annoyed.

"I've done a deep cleansing as well, if that's what you're worried about," he said impatiently. "And now come on. I want you to shag my brains out."

 

The countless fantasy images those words created in John's mind caused a hot-and-cold shudder of arousal to run down his spine. Still, he didn't really like the crude expression.

 

"Can't you put it a different way?" he asked, hoping for a more romantic description.

 

Sherlock sighed impatiently.

"What would you prefer?" he asked, irritated. "Sexual intercourse, copulation, sex, fornication or coitus?" he listed off. "Copulate, penetrate, hide the salami..."

 

"All right, all right," John interrupted hastily. "Fine, let's go home so I can shag your brains out."

 

"Why didn't you say so in the first place?" Sherlock muttered with yet another sigh, sounding both annoyed and relieved.

 

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

**_To be continued._ **

 

 


	17. "I love you"

Never Change a Running System

 

Part 17 – “ _ **I love you”**_

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

Later on, John couldn't quite remember how they'd gotten home. All he remembered was Sherlock attacking him as soon as the door to the flat closed behind them.

 

John felt himself being kissed with impatience and impetuousness, until he practically feared for his life due to lack of oxygen. He was vaguely aware of Sherlock carelessly tossing his coat aside and tugging at John's jacket until he'd freed him from it as well.

 

"Bedroom," Sherlock growled in his ear between kisses. "Now. Immediately." He pressed closely against John, who gasped when Sherlock rubbed his erection against John's manhood, which had just begun to register a renewed interest in the proceedings.

 

John could only moan "God, yes!" and allow himself to be swept along by Sherlock's uninterrupted enthusiasm; together, they stumbled more than walked into Sherlock's bedroom.

 

Once there, Sherlock let go of him abruptly. At first, John was still woozy from Sherlock's onslaught, but the somewhat cooler air and the sudden absence of Sherlock's body heat brought him halfway back down to earth.

 

Less than a metre away, Sherlock was all but ripping the clothes from his body. His shirt was already hanging out of his trousers – two or three buttons were missing – and he was fumbling frantically at his belt.

 

"Sherlock... don't," John objected as gently as possible.

 

Sherlock's head jerked up.

"No?" he asked, his voice filled with disappointment, incomprehension, and a bit of anger.

 

"Not like that," John soothed him. "It's not a race. We have time, Sherlock. So much time." John stepped closer to him and let his hands slide down Sherlock's chest.

 

Sherlock had been watching him with intense concentration the entire time, but as soon as John's hands made contact with his bare skin, he closed his eyes, let his head fall back, and sighed languorously.

 

When John followed the path of his hands with his lips, the sigh became deeper, more sensual and erotic, and John regretted having said they had a lot of time. His desire grew as Sherlock's hands dug shakily into his hair. When his lips encircled one of Sherlock's nipples and sucked it, nibbling playfully, Sherlock arched toward him, luxuriating, and a long, drawn-out moan filled the room, sending vibrations throughout John's body and collecting into a warm, pulsing sensation between his legs.

 

John let his mouth wander a bit higher, licking across Sherlock's chest, neck, and throat, and bit him quickly on the ear lobe to gain his attention.

 

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at him; there was a question there, but there was also that infinite trust, that implicitness that put John at a loss for words and aroused him in a way he'd never thought possible.

 

"Now," John whispered softly. "Undress me. I want to feel you."

 

"God, yes..." Sherlock panted, reaching for John's shirt.

 

The last three buttons were beyond the capacity of his jittery movements, however, and with a curse of frustration, he ripped the shirt off John's body.

 

"Hey, that was..." ' _expensive_ ', John had wanted to protest, but the words died on his lips, as Sherlock had already made short work of his flies and wrapped his fingers around his erection with a surprisingly steady grip. All right ... he definitely didn't need that cock ring any more.

 

"I'll buy you a new one," Sherlock whispered, his face resting against John's neck.

 

"Jesus, Sherlock, you're going to kill me..."

 

"Let's go to bed... please ... John. I'm not a blushing virgin. You don't have to ... talk me into it. I want to. I want _you_. Now." The kisses on John's neck turned into bites, and John gasped in shock. The pain was fantastic. "Please..." Sherlock whispered again, and all of a sudden, John saw no reason to stretch it out any longer. Maybe they could enjoy a longer bout of foreplay the next time. Just then, John realised that there really was going to be a next time, and a time after that, and another time after that... He'd be able to be with Sherlock as often as he wanted. The knowledge set his brain afloat in a sea of bliss.

 

"Yes, yes, as often as you want," Sherlock interrupted his thoughts impatiently, as if he'd spoken them out loud. "But let's get into bed now. I'm suffering here."  
  
John rolled his eyes, but then his sense of humour won out.

"You're impossible, you do know that?"

 

"Not impossible ... unbelievable is the correct woooord." John had used the opportunity to shove Sherlock backwards onto the bed, where he now lay with a surprised and rather smug smile.

 

"Trousers off," John ordered, with a provocative and slightly lecherous grin that – given the speed with which Sherlock removed said trousers – had exactly the desired effect.

 

"Deep cleansed?" he asked quietly.

 

Sherlock nodded, and John saw him swallow thickly.

 

"Then turn over."

 

There was another question on Sherlock's face, but he didn't speak it out loud, instead turning silently over onto his stomach.

 

John had to admit that he was pretty nervous, despite all of the quite visible signs of being aroused. Although he knew in theory how this was supposed to work, he'd never had sex with a man before. Nor had he done what he was now planning – had been planning, in fact, since Sherlock informed him of the hygienic state of his most intimate area. He pushed Sherlock's legs slightly apart and knelt down between his thighs.

 

He slowly stroked his hands over Sherlock's arse, eliciting another pleasure-filled, almost hedonistic sigh out of him. Just as slowly, he spread Sherlock's buttocks gently apart until he could see his opening. Then he lowered his head.

 

A loud "John!" made him jump up again.

 

"Sherlock... I... I'm sorry. If you don't like it... we can do something..." he stammered, alarmed and embarrassed.

 

"Not like it?" Sherlock blurted, panting. "Are you mad? For God's sake, keep going!"

 

John had to giggle in relief, which only incited Sherlock's displeasure.

"If you're quite finished indulging in your inappropriate display of levity, then get your tongue back where it was," he commented acidly, giving his hips a provocative wiggle.

 

John grinned quietly to himself, but then re-applied himself enthusiastically to the task of bringing Sherlock to a state of such an arousal that he would no longer be able to string two coherent words together.

 

He was very successful, very quickly. When John felt that was enough of that, Sherlock was lying splayed out before him, his back gleaming with sweat, his thighs quivering, his hands fisted into the sheets and his hips jerking uncontrollably into the mattress. Aside from " _more_ ", " _please_ ", " _John_ ", and " _deeper_ ", Sherlock hadn't made a single sound the entire time.

 

John was more than pleased with himself; in addition, Sherlock's moans and his inadvertent twitching were a strong aphrodisiac for him.

 

He separated himself reluctantly from Sherlock, touching his shoulder gently.

"Sherlock?"

 

Sherlock turned over on to his back, as if in slow motion, and opened his eyes. John stopped breathing for a moment. His pupils were glittering dark, full of desire, and appeared much too large for his narrow face, the pale skin of which was now veiled with pink – just as it had been on the night when John first touched him.

 

"I want to watch you, John," Sherlock said quietly, his voice rough.

 

"Do you really, Sherlock? We don't have to do it today..." John said, then kicked himself for being an idiot. Why? Why was he spouting such nonsense? If he didn't get to feel Sherlock right away he was going to go mad with desire. Why did he have to be so bloody proper?

 

Sherlock's hooded gaze slid over John's body. Over his chest, his stomach, his groin, stopping at his stiffly jutting cock. He licked his lips, and John had to close his eyes for a moment. He hadn't seen anything as obscene as that simple gesture since ... no idea. He couldn't recall. He simply couldn't recall.

 

"I want to," Sherlock whispered, and John opened his eyes just in time to see him wink. "It won't be a problem," he noted, leering at John's erection. "Lube's on the bedside table."

 

The dildo set popped up in John's consciousness, and he swallowed heavily. Fine, Sherlock knew what he was in for. Still, John's hands were shaky as he reached for the lubricant gel. There was something wicked and sinful about the willingness with which Sherlock had spread his legs for him.

 

"Pillow..." John was shocked at his own voice, so rough and hoarse and full of desire. He cleared his throat. "Take a pillow and put it..."

 

Sherlock's wrinkled forehead smoothed out and he nodded in understanding. He took his pillow and shoved it under himself, raising his hips up. John's gaze was automatically drawn to his stiffened penis. It was dark and so swollen that the veins were protruding. The tip was gleaming with moisture, and John wondered how Sherlock could still be so in control. On the other hand, he shouldn't be surprised. This was the man who had walked around their flat for weeks with an erection, apparently unconcerned.

 

"Knees..." John whispered hoarsely.

 

An eyebrow raised in question.

"Knees?" Then comprehension dawned. "Ah... bend them, yes?"

 

Sherlock bent his legs, pulling one up close to his chest. His hand grasped the back of his knee in order to hold the leg in that position, causing him to present himself so shamelessly and innocently that John's arousal came close to being torture.

 

The lustful pull in his groin had become an almost painful pulsing. As if in a trance, he smeared the cool gel onto his erection, wincing slightly because he'd forgotten to warm it up between his hands first, just as Sherlock had way back then. He didn't dare spread it around properly for fear that it would all be over for him. He squeezed out some more of the lube onto his fingers and...

 

"John..." Sherlock whinged. "I don't need any bloody fingers. I need you. It's fine. Believe me." When John still hesitated, Sherlock raised one eyebrow. "What does a man have to do around here to get properly pounded?" he asked in his usual arrogant manner.

 

"You..." John said slowly and clearly, "are going to live to regret that."

 

Sherlock licked his lips.

"Oh really..." he drawled, his eyes suddenly clouding over with lust.

 

"Yes, really," John confirmed, knelt between Sherlock's legs, took a deep breath, and pressed his hard cock against Sherlock's hole. The ease with which he slid in only served to ratchet his arousal up further.

 

"Oh... Joooooohn..." Sherlock arched toward him, his entire body tensing and relaxing. John felt every single movement, every twitch, in him, through him, around him. His lips brushed awkwardly against the back of Sherlock's bent-back thigh, and Sherlock stretched his neck back, closed his eyes and groaned.

 

John knew that he couldn't stand this sweet, sweet torture for very long, so he made his first movements slow, gentle, and cautious. He wanted to make it last as long as possible. To feel Sherlock longer, to hear him beg once more...

 

"More..." Sherlock rasped. " _More_... please..."

 

Their surroundings swam before John's eyes; he saw only Sherlock, offering himself, presenting himself, taking him in, writhing beneath him, opening himself up. He took Sherlock's leg and laid it over his shoulder. His thrusts became deeper, stronger, and he felt Sherlock shudder under him for the first time.

 

"Yessss..." he gasped in that sinfully deep voice. "God... aaah... deeper... more..." Sherlock stretched both arms up over his head and put his palms against the bedstead, pressing them there, supporting himself and providing counter-pressure to John's deep thrusts.

 

Only then did John notice that there was a steady stream of pre-come dripping onto Sherlock's stomach, his erection bouncing against his heated skin out of sync with John's thrusts – stimulating, arousing, but certainly also frustrating, because it couldn't possibly be enough stimulation. It was both torture and pleasure at the same time, and Sherlock appeared to be enjoying it to the fullest.

 

John shifted his weight a bit so he could grasp Sherlock's firm, hot flesh. A fresh shudder ran through Sherlock's entire body as John began to work it up and down.

 

"Aaahhh... nnnggghhh... John... don't... no... _stop_..." Sherlock stammered, thrashing his head back and forth on the mattress as if he were in the grips of a fever. John froze, let go, stopped. Had he done something wrong? Was he hurting him? But then Sherlock spoke again. Urgently, roughly, assuaging John's fears.

 

"Don't... I'll come. I don't want to yet... Not like this... I want it to be with you..." Sherlock had lifted his head a bit, watching John with wide-open eyes. Pinning him, searching him, drawing him in. John saw the naked flame of desire in his dark, dark pupils.

 

"God, yes..." he groaned and began to move inside Sherlock once again. He braced himself with both hands on the mattress, grateful that Sherlock was so limber. His thrusts quickly became deeper, the pace faster; Sherlock was still asking for " _more_ ", " _deeper_ ", " _harder_ ", and " _faster_ ", and John gave it to him. At some point, his fingers reached for Sherlock's rigid shaft and rubbed over it roughly, and this time there was no protest.

 

"Yes... yes... John... I... I'm going to... come... John!" Sherlock cried, his voice pitched unusually high.

 

John was at his limit as well. Even if he might wish that it would never end, his body was racing toward release, straining for the climax of their union.

 

"Oh God, Sherlock... yes... come... for me... I'm ... just about..." John couldn't speak any more. He had completely lost the ability to form words and sentences at the sight of what lay before him.

 

Sherlock's arms were still stretched over his head, braced against the bedstead; his thighs were shaking, his whole body was as tense as a violin string. Like an instrument that was just waiting to be played by John. Sherlock's nipples were small, hard and very dark, forming a stark contrast to his pale skin, which was flushed with pink. Only a few spots remained white. Spots that John knew were scars. He'd treated some of them himself, and he was filled with a sense of connection he'd never known before. Some of Sherlock's dark curls were plastered to his sweaty forehead, his cheeks were heated and red, his lips were slightly parted, practically begging to be kissed with wild abandon. Not for the first time, John cursed his lesser body size – in comparison to Sherlock's – which made it impossible for him to do so at the moment.

 

Instead, he pressed a kiss to Sherlock's knee, which was still hanging over his shoulder. Sherlock had wrapped his other leg around John's hips, in an attempt to pull John closer to him... insatiable, demanding, passionate.

 

The feeling of connection was joined by a tiny hint of power that went right to John's head. He was the reason for Sherlock's insatiability. He was the reason for his demands, his desire, for his ecstasy.

 

John's movements became more frantic, less controlled, more merciless, and Sherlock was in heaven. No more sounds escaped those incredible lips, his arousal being too great for words.

 

Then... he arched up once more... stopped... savoured... opened himself completely and without reservation... With a hoarse, rattling breath, Sherlock poured himself out over John's fingers, across his stomach, up onto his chest. Sherlock's muscles cramped and jerked around John's cock, and like the frenzied crescendo of an orchestra's final furious bars, John's orgasm exploded inside him, and he came and came and came...

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

Later, Sherlock's head was resting on John's chest, listening to his heartbeat. John knew that's what he was doing because Sherlock's index finger was twitching gently in time with his pulse against his hip.

 

Sherlock's dark curls tickled John's chin, and they'd pulled the cover over themselves after cleaning up a bit. John wouldn't have moved for anything in the world. He would never have thought it possible that Sherlock would be one to cuddle after sex, and he wanted to enjoy it as long as it lasted.

 

And the sex! It had been the best fucking sex in John's entire life.

 

John sighed in satisfaction.

"We should talk," he finally said.

 

"Do we have to?" Sherlock mumbled against his chest.

 

"Yes," John said firmly.

 

Sherlock yawned.

"If we must..."

 

A smile formed on John's lips.

"It can wait until tomorrow."

 

"Fine. Tomorrow," Sherlock replied sleepily.

 

John breathed a kiss into Sherlock's hair.

"I love you," he said softly.

 

Sherlock stretched luxuriantly and snuggled in closer to John.

"Finally. About time..."

 

"What do you mean?" John asked, confused.

 

"It's been exactly two hours and fifty-three minutes since our first kiss, and you haven't said you loved me until now. I was faster. And I'm the one who's supposed to be the sociopath."

 

John shook his head.

"You're going to get to hear it more often than you say it."

 

"I was afraid of that," Sherlock murmured, and fell asleep.

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

_**To be continued.** _

 

So. There will be a nice little epilogue, and then it's all over. *sigh*

 

 


	18. Epilogue - top or bottom? And the final return of the pineapple juice

Never Change a Running System

 

Part 17

 

**Epilogue – top or bottom? And the final return of the pineapple juice.**

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

 

**_Several months later..._ **

 

It was August, and London was unbearably hot.

 

Lestrade's text was like an answer to John's prayers. He'd asked Sherlock and John to come to Croydon to help with a mysterious case.

 

Croydon wasn't exactly the countryside, but the air there was better, fresher, and a bit cooler, and John took a deep breath as he and Sherlock got off the train.

 

"Look, Sherlock, that's what the sky looks like ... without a layer of smog," he sighed in relief.

 

"Mmhm," Sherlock murmured without looking up from his phone. "And where's the car that's supposed to pick us up?"

 

"Someone might think you weren't even interested in the case," John teased.

 

"I'm not," Sherlock snapped. "I was completely happy in London."

 

"No, you weren't!" John argued. "You've been lying around bored on the couch in nothing but your pants for the past two days."

 

Sherlock sent him a dark look.

"And now I've had to get dressed!" he complained. "And this case is only about a three. I don't leave the house for something like this. We agreed."

 

"The fresh air will do you good," John said, unmoved. "And now stop pouting."

 

"Why?" Sherlock retorted. "You like it when I pout. It always makes you think of how kissable my mouth looks."

 

John wrinkled his forehead in annoyance.

"How often have I told you to stop reading my mind. That's private!"

 

"You know perfectly well I can't turn it off."

 

"You know what?" John hissed. "You're even more insufferable in the country than you are in the city."

 

"This is the thanks I get for pulling myself together so you can get out of London?" Sherlock asked, insulted.

 

"Don't think I'm going to fall for that," John grumbled. "I talked you into it because I thought a change of scenery and some fresh air would do you good. So don't start with how you only took the case because you thought _I_ was the one who wanted to get out of the city."

 

Sherlock just stared at him, slowly arching one eyebrow.

"Is that so?" was all he said.

 

"You... you..." John sputtered, nearly speechless.

 

During their argument, they had left the platform and passed through the station, and were just exiting onto the High Street.

 

"Make a note of what you wanted to say, if it comes to you," Sherlock said neutrally. "There's Lestrade with the hire car." He slipped out of his jacket as he walked and rolled up his shirtsleeves. "Going by the size of his pit stains, the air conditioner's out."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Lestrade had chauffered them to the house of one Miss Susan Cusing. They were now sitting in the living room, trying to shed some light on things.

 

The interview hadn't been very helpful, in John's opinion. All they had learned was that Susan Cushing had received a package in the mail containing two amputated ears, but then Lestrade had already told them that. Miss Cushing couldn't make heads nor tails of why she might have received such a delivery. Lestrade had asked most of the questions, as Sherlock was busy flitting around the room. He didn't say anything until Lestrade ran out of things to ask.

 

"You have two sisters?"

 

"Yes," Miss Cushing answered. "Mary and Sarah."

 

John looked around the room, only now noticing the many photographs – wedding portraits, family shapshots, pets, children – many of which showed the same three women together. One of them was Miss Cushing herself, and the other two bore a striking resemblance to her.

 

"Sarah lived here. How long?" Sherlock continued brusquely.

 

"Well... she moved out just a couple of weeks ago..." Miss Cushing replied hesitantly.

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes in annoyance.

"And she lived with your sister Mary before that – until she threw her out, too, because she's a shrew. Spare me. Simply answer the question: how long?"

 

Miss Cushing stared at him with round eyes.

"Three months," she said, puzzled. "And she moved out two weeks ago."

 

"You threw her out," Sherlock stated. "Now where is the package?"

 

"Outside... it disgusted me. It's in the gardening shed," Miss Cushing replied, still staring at Sherlock in shock.

 

Sherlock looked as if he were about to say something – judging by the way he was curling his lip, it was probably something rude or biting (or both), which was why John tried to stop him.

 

"Sherlock... garden," John said shortly, causing Sherlock to shoot him a look of astonishment. "The package is in the garden shed, all right?"

 

Sherlock's face relaxed a little and he shrugged, saying gamely, "Fine, let's go to the garden. What are we waiting for?"

 

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Lestrade giving the two of them an odd look and shaking his head.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Once outside, Lestrade went ahead and retrieved the package from the shed. There was a bench in front of the little building that provided space for all three men to sit. Sherlock sat in the middle, inspecting the strange package with the morbid contents. He studied the address, the packing paper, and the smaller one of the two ears thoroughly before passing the package and its contents to John and leaning back.

 

"Well, John? Your opinion?" he asked, placing his palms together and blinking up at the summery blue sky.

 

"Not done by a professional," John answered. "Dull knife. Wasn't a doctor, a veterinarian, or a butcher who made these cuts. Time of amputation..."

 

Sherlock sprang up.

"Lestrade, take the package." Lestrade did so, nonplussed. "Now go back inside and ask Miss Cushing how long it's been since she heard from her sister Mary."

 

"And what will you be doing?" Lestrade asked, somewhat reluctantly.

 

Sherlock gave him a look of pure innocence.

"I'll be continuing to think about this incredibly exciting case."

 

"Why do I not believe that?" Lestrade muttered to himself on the way back to the house.

 

John blinked up at Sherlock's backlit form.

"So? What are we really doing?" he asked. "Breaking and entering somewhere to gather some evidence?"

 

"Not necessary," Sherlock said, grabbing John's arm and dragging him into the garden shed. "Ah... very good," he then said, satisfied, after looking around.

 

John tried to see what Sherlock had, but there was only the usual: gardening implements, a rickety chair, a big wooden barrel... It was more of a tool shed than a garden shed. It was warm and stuffy. The air smelled of dust, rotting leaves, soil, metal, and wood. Dull yellow light filtered in through a small window in the back that hadn't been cleaned in a long time.

 

"What..." But before John could finish his question, he felt himself being shuffled around by Sherlock until he was half sitting on the barrel. "Sherlock, what the..."

 

Sherlock grabbed his hands with an iron grip and pressed them up against the wall behind him, while his lips sank hotly down onto his mouth.

 

John couldn't do anything but moan into the unexpected kiss. When Sherlock let up for a moment, John gathered enough of his wits to protest.

 

"Sherlock, we can't do that here... This is a crime scene."

 

"Wrong on both accounts," Sherlock said, unmoved, then licked greedily over John's neck. "First, this isn't a crime scene, merely the storage point for a package containing two human ears. Second, as you see quite clearly, we certainly can..."  Sherlock pressed his lower body against John to emphasise his point, at the same time allowing him to feel how much he wanted him. "I don't think you want me to walk around out there like this, do you?"

 

"Sherlock! Aaahhh..." John's indignation decreased at the same rate at which his trousers became increasingly and uncomfortably tight.

 

"Anyway, it's all your fault," Sherlock noted, nibbling on John's ear lobe.

 

"My fault?" John moaned, rubbing his awakening erection against Sherlock's thigh.

 

"Your fault," Sherlock confirmed soberly.

"You kept sending out those sexy, provocative vibes."

 

John sighed. This wasn't the first time he'd heard this excuse.

"Again?"

 

"Who else is parading around in front of me all day in jeans that leave nothing to the imagination? And who's showing a shocking amount of skin today?" Sherlock justified himself. "And you drank pineapple juice at breakfast. I saw it. You want me to get down on my knees for you."

 

"There wasn't any other juice in the flat! And I'm not parading... oh God... and I'm not showing a lot of skin, I only have the top button undone... aaahhhh... and you're the one who bought me these jeans!"

 

"Proving once again that I have excellent taste," Sherlock noted with a smug grin, and changed his grip on John's wrists so that he could maintain his hold with only one hand. He slipped his other hand down between their bodies.

 

"Sherlooooooock... Oh God, do that again..." Despite the advanced state of his arousal, John managed to gain control of Sherlock's lips and kiss him stormily, until they were both gasping for air. "I love you," he whispered softly while Sherlock was still trying to catch his breath.

 

"That's the second time you've said that since breakfast..." Sherlock said, but he didn't sound very put out about it.

 

"How about it, Sherlock?! Have you figured it out? What are the two of you doing in there..." Lestrade's voice suddenly broke in, and the shed door – which had been slightly ajar - opened.

 

John froze; Lestrade, too, stood poised in the doorway, unable to move.

 

Sherlock was the only one who seemed to know what he was doing.

 

"The smaller ear belongs to Mary. The sister. How do I know? Because it bears a striking resemblance to Miss Cushing's ear. But of course I'm the only one who noticed. It's a mystery to me how you've solved a single case without my help. But never mind that for the moment. Back to the topic at hand.

 

"As you also heard, there are three sisters. And if you had looked carefully at the photographs on the wall, you would have noticed that there is only a wedding picture of Mary. None of Miss Cushing, nor of the other sister, the regrettable Sarah. But you won't have noticed. As always. Since it's too hot today and I have better things to do at the moment, you could go find this Sarah yourself. I'm certain she was the intended recipient of the package, as it was addressed only to S. Cushing. But you presumably didn't notice that either.

 

"At the moment, I suspect the larger ear belongs to Mary's lover, and that her husband has murdered both her and the lover. It should fall within the realm of your capabilities to track down the husband, shouldn't it, Lestrade?" Sherlock graced Lestrade with a sunny smile, dripping with sarcasm. "I can take care of the details later. Oh, yes... and even though it might look like it at the moment ... John isn't normally the bottom."

 

Lestrade's paralysis lifted, he let out an inarticulate sound, took a quick step backwards, and slammed the door shut.

 

"You did not say that!" John groaned as soon as they were alone again, shutting his eyes in mortification.

 

"Poor Lestrade's been driving himself insane wondering about it for weeks. I wanted to put him out of his misery, as well as avoiding your male ego taking any damage based on groundless suspicions," Sherlock explained, resuming with the distribution of kisses on John's cheeks and neck.

 

"You are going to seriously regret that!" John grated out between clenched teeth, but didn't make any attempt to free himself from Sherlock's grip, a task which would have been easily achieved.

 

Sherlock looked at him with great interest.

"Will you put on your uniform again? I do like it when you pull rank."

 

"What does my..." John hissed, but didn't get any further.

 

"Your rank has everything to do with it," Sherlock interrupted with a meaningful grin. "It's just begging to be pulled, in fact." He started slowly rubbing his thigh over the obvious bulge in John's trousers.

 

"I hate you!" John groaned and wrapped his legs around Sherlock's hips in order to pull him in closer.

 

"No, you don't," Sherlock contradicted him confidently.

 

"It's a relief that you can still think clearly enough to do your work, despite the challenge my vibes pose to you," John taunted him, although his voice did sound a little hoarse and breathless.

 

"If you hadn't been wearing these jeans, I would have figured it out even sooner," Sherlock said, undoing John's flies with his free hand.

 

"So you were just showing off again." He sighed in relief when he felt Sherlock's fingers on his overheated skin. "No matter what Lestrade hopes... you'll never be a good man. Never."

 

"Why ever would I want to be?" Sherlock whispered in John's ear. "You love me just the way I am. Why should I want to change?"

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

In the meantime, Mycroft Holmes was sitting at a desk in the library of the Diogenes Club. Before him laid a cardboard shipping sleeve, a DVD, and one of his business cards. With his second-best fountain pen and a smug smile on his face, he was writing: ' _For stimulating moments – Best regards_ ,' on the back of the business card, which he then laid into the plastic case with the DVD. He had already labelled the DVD with another pen. _'Ice cube – Bar – Sherlock – Part 1'_ , it said.

 

Mycroft slipped the DVD into the cardboard sleeve, sealed it carefully, and wrote John Watson's hospital address on it. Mycroft was purposely not sending it to Baker Street, as he wanted to avoid Sherlock getting his hands on the corpus delicti and making it disappear before his little doctor got to enjoy observing Sherlock in the midst of his extremely naughty experiment.

 

Once the package was on its way, Mycroft indulged in playing through in his mind's eye all of the possible reactions which his brother and his little doctor might have. Mycroft Holmes had seldom spent a more enjoyable afternoon.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes on the epilogue:  
> I'm shamelessly playing with the original story "The Cardboard Box" here. I've also incorporated some of the dialogue from the explanations on the English fan site "With Love, S.H. - Decoding the Subtext". (There, they suggest that Sherlock only took the case for John's sake because he knows that John would like to see something other than London.)
> 
> Link: http://nekosmuse.com/sherlockholmes/subtext/cardboardbox.htm
> 
> It's a really interesting site that looks at each original canon story through slash goggles, imagining that Holmes and Watson were real people.
> 
> Author's note:  
> Well, that's it then... kind of a shame. I've developed a real soft spot for the story. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.


End file.
